


Primes Don't Party(*)

by auri_mynonys



Series: Designation:Mine [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Apologies, Communication Failure, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Face-Sitting, Forgiveness, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, mild but present, specifically berthroom communication failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: It's been many, many millennia since Orion Pax drunkenly confessed his feelings to a certain gladiator. Now that he's a Prime, Optimus's feelings remain unchanged, but there's certainly no way he can tell Megatron as much... unless...?
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Series: Designation:Mine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028646
Comments: 232
Kudos: 400





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for a hot minute. It got away from me, but it's finally all but done. I'm planning to post chapters about once a week or so.
> 
> Inspired by my apparent love of putting Optimus in awkward situations in which he cannot help but lose control over his feelings, and also my love of pining and love confessions. I am predictable and sappy and this is all I have to give you, friends. Also mainly inspired by the thought, "What would happen if Optimus Prime got drunk at a party?" The answer is, obviously, he would hit on Megatron and then shout at him until their feelings finally got settled. OBVIOUSLY. XD
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this extremely soft sequel to Designation:Mine, and Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

“No.” Megatron’s vocals were flat and cold, red optics aglow with an all too familiar arrogance. The dome of the Hall of Judgments echoed with that word, _no,_ as sharp and harsh as the mech who had spoken it. “I will hear no more of this. Motion denied. You are dismissed, Senator. What is the next _reasonable_ item on the agenda?”

Optimus Prime quashed a smile, pressing his servo over his mouth as if in thought to hide it from the mecha before him. _Still the same gladiator I once knew, even after four million years of war. Warlord, gladiator, and Lord Protector all rolled into one... these mechs know not who they meddle with._

The Senator, a Newspark from Crystal City painted in shades of silver and blue, gaped like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing in surprise. He glanced imploringly towards Optimus, but Optimus remained silent, regarding the mech with cool disapproval.

“Lord Protector,” the mech stuttered, “Forgive me any… ah… impertinence, but such motions cannot simply be dismissed without a consensus from the majority - ”

“We are _not_ entertaining the topic of unlimited terms of office,” Megatron snapped - and no, of course they weren’t. Neither Optimus nor Megatron wished to rebuild Cybertron in the image of the Age of Rust which had begat the war. They were attempting, as much as they could, to remake Cybertron into a free and equal planet, despite their oft-competing agendas and multitude of disagreements on how best to achieve that end.

On this topic, at least, Optimus and Megatron were of one mind.

The Senator glanced at Optimus a second time, and Megatron snarled, his great fist clenching atop the long, gleaming table before him. “Do not look to Optimus for rescue, Senator. If you have something to say, stand your ground and say it - and _look_ at me when you do it. Show me you are no coward, and perhaps I’ll entertain whatever paltry argument you possess in favor of such tyranny, if only to tear it to shreds when you are finished.”

“Megatron.” Optimus’s voice was soft, a gentle warning to Megatron to moderate his tone. His servo twitched where it rested on the arm of his chair, aching to reach for Megatron and settle on his arm or thigh instead: aching to rub circles into the gleaming silver metal in the hopes of soothing him. But it remained where it belonged upon his seat, the fantasy briefly glimpsed and put back to berth in a blink.

Megatron’s helm snapped in his direction, that fearsome gaze now focused like a laser beam upon him. “Ah, I see our illustrious Prime _also_ wishes to voice an opinion! Perhaps you seek to foster some sort of compromise on the subject? I find myself astonished at your lack of conviction, Optimus, though I suppose I ought not to be surprised. You always did value _peace_ and _tolerance_ over taking a stand.”

Optimus scowled, the softness in his spark hardening the longer Megatron spoke. It was easy to forget who Megatron had become over the long years of the war, but a reminder was never long in coming. “You of all mechs know how many such convictions I am possessed of,” he said sharply. “Nor do I disagree with your stance. I too am opposed to unlimited terms of office in the Senate - but the Senator should be allowed to speak for himself without cowering before you.”

“Any mech who dares suggest a return to the politics of old _should_ cower!” Megatron retorted. “Do you seriously think it appropriate to tone-police _me,_ a Disposable caste mech and former gladiator, when you yourself lived a charmed life in Iacon during those dark days?”

Optimus heaved a weary sigh. The roots of this argument ran deep, to a past where he had been naive and foolish; where he had not known how the life he’d led and the views he’d held might sound to a handsome gladiator who had been a prisoner of his caste since the moment of his birth. “Expecting you to moderate your temper when acting in the capacity of Lord Protector is _not_ tone-policing,” he said. “I recall where you came from and what you suffered, perhaps more intimately than you would care to realize. You have chosen to forget how much of those early days I was present for, and how much I personally witnessed of your struggles.”

“Oh, have I?” said Megatron, plating bristling. The gesture made his already-massive frame look monstrous. A lesser mech might have quaked beneath his furious gaze, but Optimus merely tilted his head, unimpressed. Megatron’s moods were as tempestuous as the sandstorms in the Badlands: sudden, vicious, and unforgiving, quick to rise and just as quick to fade away. This would be no different. “How could I forget the time you spent by my side at the mines, suffering beneath overseers and commanders who cared more for quotas than for the very mechs who met those quotas? Ah, silly me - I’ve just recalled - _you weren’t there._ You were here in Iacon, cozily ensconced in some lovely library corner and complaining about the fancy clubs you could not enter as though that suffering equated my own - ”

“Ah… my lords?” the Senator broke in, tentatively lifting a hand. “Perhaps the discussion can be… ah… _tabled_ for now. The end of the session should be called.”

Optimus grimaced and checked his internal chronometer. It was pinging him with a reminder that the day’s proceedings were at an end, and that it was time to prepare for the upcoming evening mixer at Senator Locktrack’s elegant penthouse near the Council hall.

_Joy._

Optimus tapped the controls, allowing the doors to the great chamber to swing open. “Quite right, of course. Session dismissed. We will reconvene in two days’ time, at which point a final ruling can be made upon the matter.”

There was an almost audible sigh of relief as the session drew to an end. A stream of Senators rose and pushed their way out, all eager to escape the oppressive weight of Megatron’s rage. Optimus half-expected Megatron to rise and follow after them, as he never stayed long enough to be caught alone with the Prime; but he remained in his seat, examining his claws with a regal air. Despite himself, Optimus’ spark leapt. Megatron wished to stay and talk? It would be the first time they’d had a one-on-one conversation since they had joined forces to ignite the Omega lock. Perhaps - maybe - if circumstances were right -

When the room was empty at last, Megatron finally spoke. “If you wish to fling our former closeness in my face, Optimus, could you attempt to do it somewhere less public? I do appreciate our repartee, but less so when the gossipmongers will take what we say and run away with it.”

Ah. So much for that, then. “That was hardly my intention.”

“No? Then what was?” Megatron stood, towering over Optimus, so that Optimus was forced to clamber to his pedes as well. Belatedly, Optimus remembered that Megatron still loomed over him by several heads, and that he was now only closer to that pitiless stare, hanging above him now like a burning sun. “Did you hope to guilt me into compliance by citing our past acquaintance?”

“I said nothing about the nature of said acquaintance,” Optimus pointed out, faceplate growing hot.

“Of course you didn’t,” Megatron scoffed. “You would not wish your followers to know what we once were, I imagine. How humiliating it must be to the great Optimus Prime, to know my filthy servos once sullied his pure and holy form!”

The words struck Optimus like a slap in the face, a stark contrast to the softness he’d foolishly wished for mere moments ago. “I do not consider you filthy, nor do I believe myself tainted by your touch,” he said. He was massively out of his depth, a hollow ache in his chest. He had longed for months for the opportunity to be alone with Megatron like this, but he hadn’t wished for the encounter to be so confrontational. “I feel no humiliation when I think of our past, and I do not fear for it to be known. However clumsy my confessions to you that night in Champion’s Hall, I regret nothing I said or did after you rescued me.”

Megatron snarled, plating flaring wide once more. “Do not speak of what occurred that disastrous evening,” he warned, eyes flashing. “I have had cause to regret it for millennia. Be assured I never intend to allow such vulnerability again!”

Optimus regarded Megatron sadly, his spark burning hot and cold and shuddering within him, shrinking with grief. “As you wish,” he said at last. “I will not speak of it again. Before I depart, though, consider this: I know that deep within your spark, you are articulate, brilliant, and better than your rage. This planet - these senators - deserve that thoughtful, eloquent leader of a revolution, and not the warlord whose wrath once tore the world apart. Keep your anger and your wariness regarding the class structure and future of Cybertron; Primus knows we need it. _I_ need it. But know when and where to utilize it, and how.”

Megatron sneered, unmoved. “Typical! The sycophant and peacemaker would have me be soft with those who would see me ground beneath their heels. I only wish I could be astonished that you would take such a stance.”

“I expect no such thing - and you _know_ that,” Optimus replied sharply. “Just as you are no longer a nameless miner struggling to survive, I am no longer a privileged archivist blind to the disparity between our castes. You may twist my words to make yourself the victim if you wish, but you know in your spark who I am and what I stand for. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

So saying, Optimus gathered himself and turned away, striding towards the door and struggling not to shake with anger. Why had he thought this would go any differently? It did not matter what concessions Megatron had made, the compromise they had been forced to accept to utilize the Omega Lock and end the war; Megatron was still Megatron, warlord and warrior, all fury and ruin and apocalyptic destruction. Optimus could never forget that, not even for a moment—

“Will I see you at the party tonight?”

Optimus drew to a halt. Turned. He knew how he must look: completely bewildered, caught between anger and befuddlement at the sudden change of subject. “What?”

Megatron calmly stepped off the raised dais where their thrones stood, walking towards him at an even pace. It was as though he had never been furious at all, a mask of perfect calm settled over him. _I envy you that ability, beloved. I have never been capable of shielding my feelings the way that you do._ “The Senate and Council gathering at Locktrack’s apartments,” Megatron said. “I hear it’s to be the largest mixed faction gathering since Cybertron’s rebirth - quite an illustrious guest list, I understand, including myself for once.”

Optimus blinked. That was unexpected. Megatron, despite his role as Lord High Protector, was not often invited to the same gatherings as Optimus, though Optimus had learned through Prowl that Megatron was frequently the guest of honor at events hosted by mechs with similar imperialist political stances. “I will attend, yes.”

“Good. I know you are not overly fond of such crowded public occasions.” Megatron drew to a halt too close, too close to him, his frame looming and warm and painfully near. Optimus’ vents caught despite himself. “I had thought you might, perhaps, make excuses, especially knowing I would be joining you.”

“It is difficult to excuse oneself from social obligations when one is the Prime.” He deliberately chose not to add, _I did not know you were to attend, but I would hardly consider your presence a deterrent._ “Why do you ask?”

Megatron smirked to himself. “Oh, no reason. Idle curiosity, perhaps.”

Optimus’s gaze narrowed. “If you are considering an attempted assassination, I would not recommend it. The place has been outfitted with top-of-the-line security. Locktrack may be neutral, but I doubt he wants a renewed war on his servos.”

“Such a pity.” There was a glint of amusement in Megatron’s eyes, a humor Optimus had desperately missed. “Consider my evening ruined. I suppose I shall resign myself to an icy gaze from across the room.”

“No slots on your dance card for me?” The flirt was out before Optimus could think better of it, and he had to swallow the flinch that came immediately after, hoping Megatron would take the words as he had intended them and not how they sounded.

As if Optimus hadn’t meant them exactly as they sounded.

Megatron merely chuckled. If he was surprised by the coy remark, he did not show it. “I’m afraid not. You give me no credit, Optimus! I am more popular at such gatherings than you would like to believe. You ought to have asked me sooner.”

“I shall remember that next time.” He wanted to kiss Megatron so badly it hurt. _I missed you, I missed you, I missed you, I need you -_ “Perhaps we can share a drink instead.”

“I was under the impression you’d become something of a teetotaler.”

Optimus shrugged. “I suffered a terrible experience once and never felt the desire to drink again after... but I don’t imagine Crosscase is present to ruin my night this time.”

Megatron sniffed, annoyed, but he didn’t protest the reference overtly. “Unless mechs are now regularly returning from the dead, I very much doubt it. He met a rather unfortunate end for daring to lay his servos on someone I cared for, once.”

Optimus sighed. He wasn’t surprised by the news. He had begged Megatron to spare the mech’s life, but he’d known for a long time now the likely fate Crosscase had met while the once-named Orion Pax was safely tucked in Megatronus’s berth. “I had my suspicions.”

Megatron rolled his eyes. “Please, don’t trip over yourself to thank me.”

“What would I be thanking you for, precisely? You ignored my wishes and inflicted harm upon a mech I explicitly asked you to leave alone. You murdered him in cold blood for putting his hands on one you considered your property. Why would I be appreciative of such a violent act?”

All the warm, good humor in Megatron’s face disappeared at once. “How could I forget that the high and mighty Optimus Prime never cared to get his servos bloody?” he sneered. “Never mind the violence Crosscase intended to inflict upon you, I suppose - the violence _I_ prevented him from committing. More fool, I, for thinking you might ever appreciate all I did for you, when I still believed your intentions to be genuine.”

“My intentions have never been anything _but_ genuine,” Optimus said angrily. Megatron blinked, surprised by his ferocity, and Optimus continued, pressing onward. “I was then, and still remain, grateful for all that you taught me and showed me. If I have neglected to thank you for your actions now, in the midst of the rebirth of Cybertron, that is my own error, and I am duly sorry.”

Megatron tilted his helm curiously, frowning. “I do very little these days with you in mind, Optimus Prime.”

“I did not say my gratitude was only for what you’ve done for me personally,” Optimus replied, although he very much wished to point out that _yes, actually,_ so much of what Megatron did revolved around Optimus, and what Optimus might do. “I care far more for what you’ve done for Cybertron these past few years.”

“Really.”

Optimus stepped a little closer, pressing earnestness into his field. Perhaps if he was clear enough, if he was open enough, Megatron would finally hear him. “You have taken to the restoration of Cybertron with a fervor I dared not hope for,” he said. “Three years ago, I saw you in the streets of Kaon and Slaughter City and Tetrahex, rebuilding at the side of the Constructicons. Last year, I watched you pass rations to hungry workers in Praxus as though you were one of them, as though you were never a warlord at all. You have safeguarded our borders, fought inequity where you saw it on the rise, worked until you were dusty and exhausted and barely capable of standing to put this world back together. Whatever else you have done, that is what matters to me. That is what I admire in you most.”

Despite himself, Megatron seemed to soften, optics warming as a smile tugged at his dermas. “Of course it is. Ever so self-sacrificing, Optimus! But at least I know when to rest. From what I hear, you barely recharge any longer.”

Optimus shrugged, waving away the remark. His own actions were not under discussion here, and he did not care to consider them just now. “There is much still to be done. My duty is to Cybertron first. Rest will come when there is time for it.”

“That time will be long in coming, I suspect.” Megatron paused, examining him intently. What he looked for, Optimus could not say - but the lingering stare made him restless. “You are, as ever, a consummate general. The mask you wear so rarely slips. I wonder if your mechs have any notion of who you are beneath it.”

Optimus frowned. “They know that I care for their wellbeing, and the wellbeing of Cybertron.”

“I’m sure they do,” Megatron said. “But do they know _you,_ Optimus? Do they know the things that fire your spark, the things that torment your darkening hours?”

Optimus arched a single optic ridge, incredulous. “Do _you?_ It has been millennia since you were last familiar with me in any form outside of battle. What do you believe you know of me that my Autobots and comrades do not?”

“I imagine I know enough,” said Megatron. There was a glint in his optics that Optimus did not like, a dangerous light that suggested the old warlord was toying with him. “Tell me, Optimus… do your recharge protocols still force you into a rest cycle while you are standing at your workstation? I found you so often that way in the early days: helm bowed, servos still settled on the keys, the notes you were writing cut off mid-sentence.”

Optimus worked his jaw, annoyed - annoyed, because Megatron was _right._ “It takes little imagination to presume such might still be the case.”

“So unimpressed! I expect whoever finds you that way is forced to rouse you from recharge to send you along to berth. I very much doubt any of your mechs can carry you the way I did.”

Optimus remembered, with a wave of heat, what it had felt like to be cradled that way: waking just long enough to feel the hum of Megatronus’ spark against his cheek, burrowing closer that warmth and murmuring the gladiator’s name on static-laden vocals. _Hush, little archivist. You must rest. Work will be there in the morning._ He had never again felt so safe, so protected, so cherished.

Optimus reset his vocalizer, clearing his intake. “Again you make points that any might extrapolate from what you once knew.”

“You think so? Very well, let’s try another.” Megatron’s gaze was unrepentant, smug and certain and damnably charming despite it. “Knowing your past proclivities, I imagine you maintain a subscription to Dropdrift’s two-bit romance serials, and that, of the recent music to come out of Cybertron, Zodiac’s compositions are your favorites. Such wistful, bittersweet lyrics and sweeping stanzas… rather akin to Vicewing’s old work before the war, yes?”

Optimus couldn’t quite hide his astonishment, optics cycling. He rarely had time for music, but when he was alone in his office or habsuite, he liked to play soft, mournful music speaking of youth lost and paths not taken. Zodiac was an oft-repeated musician among his playlists. And yes, of course he was subscribed to Dropdrift’s escapist romances; they were sweet and heartfelt and inevitably set in times Optimus still longed for, or in worlds that felt familiar and yet idealized in a way pre-war Cybertron could never have been.

He had told no one these things, because these were private details: little elements of personality he hid from even his closest companions. They needed him to be strong. They needed to believe he was the very beating heart of their cause, immovable as a mountain: a guardian and guiding light. They did not need him to be a _person._ He was an icon, an ideal; and ideals did not shed tears over songs and stories.

His finials dipped anxiously, the first time they had done so in ages. Once he had used them to express many emotions, but he had trained himself out of the habit when he became a military commander. Megatron caught the gesture and smiled. “Now _there’s_ something I’ve not seen in a long time! That’s the _concerned_ finial flick, to my recollection. Don’t fret, Optimus. I won’t tell your Autobots that you’re as much circuitry and _sentio metallico_ as they are.” He shook his helm, thoughtful and distant, considering Optimus a little sadly. “I wonder if they truly know a thing about you outside your deeds in war.”

Optimus swallowed, a painful lump in his throat. No, he doubted very much that any of his soldiers knew much about him personally. He had never allowed them to get that close. “Your former familiarity does not give you some special insight into my processor, Megatron.”

“ _Former_ familiarity? Oh, now you are insulting me.” Megatron flashed an impish smirk, devastatingly attractive despite the scars marring his faceplate. “There is no mech I would consider closer to you than myself, and vice versa. We two are more intimately acquainted with each other than any other beings in this universe could ever hope to be. Millennia of warfare proves as much. How could we sustain such endless battles if we did not know each other down to the deepest, darkest subroutine? Such a thing would be impossible. No, Optimus, there is nothing ‘former’ about how close we are.” He closed what little distance lay between them with a single step, so that they stood chest to chest, plating touching. “I think I have far more than special insight, Optimus Prime. I think I know you better than any mech on this planet - with the notable exception of Ratchet, I suppose.” He rolled his optics, sneering as he spoke the medic’s name, heavy with dislike. “At any rate, I know you will not share a drink with me tonight, whatever you implied earlier.”

“Is that a challenge?” Optimus asked hoarsely. He could think of nothing else to say, when Megatron was so near to him and speaking so openly of _closeness_ and _intimacy…_

Megatron’s smirk widened. “Is it? I shall leave that for you to determine yourself.”

So saying, he stepped around Optimus, the oppressive heat of his frame fading away and leaving Optimus cold. “Farewell, Optimus,” he said, lifting a hand. “I shall see you tonight.”

In the space of a blink, he was gone, leaving an absolutely befuddled Prime standing in the middle of an empty Senate chamber, alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron heard the silence that fell a full six seconds before he felt Optimus's approach. The wave of terror rolling through his soldiers’ fields was palpable, thick with anxiety over what the leader of the Autobots might be doing among them. Was this a threat to the tenuous peace they currently maintained, or had he come only for political reasons, to make an appearance of neutrality? Questions were whispered into audials and then stuttered into silence as the Prime swept through their number, their curiosity and worry washing over Megatron in rapid succession.
> 
> Megatron already had some idea of what Optimus Prime might be doing there. He just hadn’t assumed Optimus would choose to meet his challenge so directly.

Optimus had never allowed himself to back down from Megatron before, and he certainly wasn’t about to start doing so now - no matter how confused his feelings currently were.

He stood, a mech bewildered, beneath strands of multicolored lights, staring into nothing. He was all too aware of the herd of Decepticons milling across the terrace of Locktrack’s penthouse while the Autobots stood opposite them, clustered together in tight-knit social groups and doing their utmost to ignore one another. Neutrals and Newsparks flitted between the factions like fireflies, playing both sides as best they could.

It was hardly the triumphant celebration of a reunited Cybertron that Optimus might have hoped for, had his thoughts not been elsewhere.

The sounds of pleasant chatter and easy laughter swirled around him as a circle of Autobots and Newsparks pressed ever-closer to his tall frame. That he was silent did not seem to trouble any of them much, save Ratchet, who had been casting Optimus concerned looks for most of the evening. He’d noticed, of course, that even his attempts to engage the Prime in conversation had fallen flat.

Optimus listened and nodded along occasionally as remarks were made, but contributed very little even when directly addressed. He wanted to be talking to Megatron again. It was all he could think about now that they had spoken privately for the first time since the war’s end. Even if he could not speak with Megatron alone tonight, he longed to be standing next to him, listening as Megatron made pronouncements and brokered deals and used that incredible charisma he possessed to win minds and sparks to his cause. 

Once, that had been his favorite part of gatherings such as these. In those days, he had been able to tuck himself under the gladiator’s arm, quietly nestled against his side. The only attention paid to him then was from Megatronus himself, and Orion Pax hadn’t minded _that_ in the slightest.

To Optimus's regret, hiding beneath Megatron’s arm was decidedly no longer an option. He was the Prime, the leader of the Autobots, and a war hero: a role he had both chosen and been chosen for. Peacemaker. Bridge-Builder. Level, measured thinking. Fairness and justice at all costs. There was no fighting who he was, nor the burdens he would bear until the Allspark claimed him at long last.

Some days he hoped that time would come sooner rather than later.

Optimus was drawn abruptly from the shadowed corner of his thoughts when Ratchet nudged his arm, holding out a glass of high grade. “Thirsty?” he asked.

Optimus stared at the glass, thinking of Megatron’s challenge. _I know you will not share a drink with me tonight, whatever you implied earlier… you fear to loosen that tightly-reined control you keep over your emotions, lest they overwhelm the mechs you feel you owe a duty to._

Damn him; he was absolutely right.

“Thank you, old friend,” Optimus said, forcing a smile and lifting a hand to refuse. “That’s very kind, but I cannot possibly - ”

“Just one drink,” Ratchet insisted, pressing the glass towards him. “One won’t kill you, will it? You are allowed to unwind sometimes, you know.”

 _I decidedly am not allowed that,_ Optimus thought, frowning down at the glass. But now everyone was staring at him, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse, especially from someone as close to him as Ratchet. And there was Megatron’s voice in his head as well, mocking and bright with triumph: _I know you will not share a drink…_

Venting quietly, he forced a far thinner smile and took the glass, holding it cautiously. “As you wish.”

He took a tiny sip as conversation resumed, Ratchet clapping him on the back in reassurance. _There. Take that, Megatron. One drink, and I’ve already at least partially met your challenge._

The second the high grade hit his glossa, his archival memory booted up with a click. Suddenly it was playing for him the image of a blow struck hard against Megatronus, sending him skidding across the arena floor. The same horrible, sickening dread filled Optimus as the file played a recording of his comm, whispered, urgent: _… let the last thing I see be you…_

He tasted grief and anger, remembering the feel of an unsteady barstool beneath his wobbling frame; the touch of a stranger on his leg, his back, his shoulders; the press of a cool cube full of sickeningly sweet high grade to his lips. He could see the snarl on Megatronus’ face so clearly, as if those same bright eyes were still looking at him, outraged at the state the stranger had put young Orion Pax in. He could feel those servos, those arms holding him aloft, that voice that now haunted his nightmares murmuring, _And what if you were enough for him? What if you were all he wanted?_

He flinched and downed the whole glass in one go, terminating the archived file and washing the memory away.

Obviously, those words had been as much a lie as any Megatron had ever spun for him. Orion Pax had never been enough for him. He wanted glory and power and a world made in his image, violent and cruel and bending beneath his will; but he did not and had never wanted Optimus. Not truly. Not the way he had implied that night.

_Why wasn’t I enough?_

Optimus ached. He longed for the time before, for the future he’d always hoped would come to pass: he and Megatron, side by side, together and in love the way they once had been. Working with one another to repair the planet, instead of plotting against one another and attempting to counteract each other’s plans at every turn.

It seemed that vision was not to be.

Optimus grabbed a second glass, against his better judgment, and downed it too in one swallow, grateful for its burn.

* * *

Another hour or so passed, during which Optimus nursed a third drink with ever-increasing moodiness. Conversation continued around him, but he paid it no heed, glancing at Megatron time and time again as the minutes ticked past.

It struck him as amusing that Megatron himself wasn’t drinking. His servos remained empty, folded behind his back as he cast a sneering, aloof glare over the party. He was easily the tallest mech in the room, his armor polished and gleaming in beautiful silver and catching the light of the lanterns in a dazzling display. Starscream and Knock Out had joined him once he had arrived, flanking him on either side, and behind him, Soundwave loomed, turning his faceless helm this way and that to gaze blankly at any who dared to approach the Lord High Protector.

The sight of him, proud and cold and glorious as ever, made Optimus's spark throb painfully.

It was odd to see him isolated in the midst of a party like this one - he who had once been the center of attention at every gathering. He was surrounded by Decepticons and yet was silent, regal and still and lost in his own processor. Optimus wondered if Megatron felt the same as he did just then: disenfranchised from a world they had created, witnessing the same cracks and fissures that had caused the war occurring all over again.

Did Megatron feel that same loneliness, that same isolation? Did Megatron wish that he, too, could rest?

Megatron had never been one to tire, Optimus thought wryly. No obstacle had ever stopped him from achieving what he desired. The only thing preventing him from complete and total victory had been, and still was, Optimus Prime himself.

_It wasn’t always that way. Once we were brothers. Soulmates. Lovers. Once, I was enough for him._

__

__

_Maybe I still could be, if I dared enough._

Before he could think better of it, Optimus finished his third drink and snatched two glasses of high grade from a passing server. “Excuse me, friends,” he said, nodding politely to the quieting circle surrounding him.

Ratchet arched an optic ridge. “Going somewhere?”

Optimus was already turning away, gaze drifting towards Megatron once more. “Yes.”

With that, he strode across the divide between Autobot and Decepticon, as though he had every right to do so, gaze locked upon one mech and one mech alone.

* * *

Megatron heard the silence that fell a full six seconds before he felt Optimus's approach. The wave of terror rolling through his soldiers’ fields was palpable, thick with anxiety over what the leader of the Autobots might be doing among them. Was this a threat to the tenuous peace they currently maintained, or had he come only for political reasons, to make an appearance of neutrality? Questions were whispered into audials and then stuttered into silence as the Prime swept through their number, their curiosity and worry washing over Megatron in rapid succession.

Megatron already had some idea of what Optimus Prime might be doing there. He just hadn’t assumed Optimus would choose to meet his challenge so directly.

He was already fully braced for Optimus's arrival when Starscream grabbed his arm, whispering urgently to him. “Master - Optimus Prime is coming over, he’s - ”

Megatron shrugged Starscream off, gritting his fangs. “So I gathered,” he growled. “You are approximately ten seconds too late to be delivering the news as though it should come as a surprise to me.”

Starscream made an indignant sound, wings flicking upright in annoyance - but Megatron had no time for his SIC’s ego just now. He turned instead to face the Prime, red optics locking on Optimus's face and drinking him in.

It wasn’t fair that he was still so _handsome,_ even after all this time. He had been a beauty as an archivist, shorter and slimmer and sweeter in nature; but as a Prime, he was incomparable. Nearly Megatron’s height, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, he gleamed beneath the lantern’s glow, strong and somber and still carrying the tiniest sliver of hope in cool blue optics. It was jarring to see that same, sweet face that had once belonged to a naïve archivist upon a warrior’s frame. Jarring, and wonderful, and painful, for it was yet another reminder that this Prime, this usurper, was the mech he’d once loved with every fiber of his being.

The mech Megatron still loved, despite himself.

A bright prickle of heat danced over Megatron’s circuits as Optimus drew to a halt scant inches from him. The warlord set his jaw, tilting his helm without moving any closer. He did not want Optimus to believe he was welcome here. He did not want Optimus to know he yet entertained such _softness_ for him.

“Optimus,” he said coldly.

“Megatron.” Optimus offered him a fluted glass of high grade, wearing a tremulous smile. He spoke Megatron’s designation with the sort of open affection he had only shown before taking the mantle of Prime. He almost sounded… not like himself. Or perhaps _more_ like himself. It was hard to tell what aspects of him belonged to the Matrix and what traits were innate in him.

**[OPTIMUS.PRIME{DESIGNATION:{MY.ENEMY}, {MY.BELOVED}, {MY.DEAREST}, {MY.MATE}=PRESENT.HERE; MOTIVE=??????]**

Megatron fiercely cut off that line of code, the obscenely long list of endearments still attached to Optimus's designation collapsing into archived memory once more. He had tried to remove the list more times than he could count, but it was clear to Megatron now that doing so was merely a colossal waste of his time. However irritating it might have been, he could not stop his spark from pining for its would-be mate. If the coded endearments were the only visible sign of that yearning, he would be glad to accept them.

Optimus awkwardly reset his intake. “Having a good evening?”

Megatron scoffed. “I was,” he said. “Until the Prime himself decided to ruin things.”

“How terribly rude of him,” Optimus deadpanned. “You shall have to teach him some manners.”

Oh, they were joking with one another now, were they? How good of Optimus to rediscover his sense of humor. “I suppose I should be honored. It’s been quite some time since you’ve chosen to grace my presence at a social function!” He belatedly recognized that Optimus held _two_ glasses of high grade in his servos instead of one: the one he was offering Megatron and one he had presumably brought for himself. _So he has indeed come to prove me wrong. It would appear I struck a nerve._ “I see you chose to meet my challenge. And here I thought you were merely mocking me when you suggested sharing a drink!”

“I would not dare, my lord,” said Optimus, flashing a tiny smile. “Besides, I meant to congratulate you on the recent security legislation you managed to approve. I understand it has been a long and difficult process. You must be relieved to see it drawing to its conclusion mostly intact.”

Megatron snorted. “ _Mostly._ What compromises I was forced to make displease me greatly, but, as an irritatingly wise archivist once said to me, _Better to compromise and win some of what you wish than to stand firm and lose all._ ”

It was a mistake to have quoted him. Optimus's eyes lit up, warmth infusing his field, and Megatron’s spark leapt in reply despite himself. “You remembered.”

“I have forgotten very few things Orion Pax said to me in the early days of my revolution - before he betrayed me, of course.” The words were laced with bitterness, a forceful reminder of what Optimus had once done to him: spoken as much for his own benefit as for Optimus's. Whatever their current positions, Megatron could never allow himself to forget the underhanded way in which Optimus had stolen the Primacy from him. “Thank you for your congratulations, Optimus. You’ll forgive me if I don’t trip over myself with further gratitude, I trust.” He smiled, finally, but it offered little in the way of warmth. “There, now. You’ve met my challenge with aplomb and proved yourself to be impartial. You may assuage your guilty conscience with that acknowledgement and return to your herd of worshippers, as I’m sure you wish to do.”

Optimus's expression fell all at once, that bright hope within his gaze bleeding away into nothing. Megatron expected disappointment, maybe anger - but Optimus merely looked… there was no word for it but _sparkbroken._ Wounded. For a blink, he ceased to be a Prime and returned to being an archivist. Megatron ached to comfort him.

_Such underhanded tricks you play, Optimus, toying with my spark like this._

“Unless you have something more you wish to add…?” Megatron prompted impatiently, arching an optic ridge.

Optimus set his jaw, his own optics narrowing. “I did not come to you merely to win a bet, Megatron,” he said. “Nor were my well-wishes anything but genuine.” He held out the drink again, and Megatron glanced at it warily, hesitating. “Please.”

He could almost hear Optimus's voice, as if he’d spoken the words aloud, as if they’d echoed in his spark: _Please, Megatron. The war is over. Can’t we be friends? Isn’t that enough?_

Friends. _Ha._ As if he had ever been capable of being _merely friends_ with Optimus Prime.

Soundwave stepped close, cables hovering in a manner that suggested disapproval; but Knock Out merely shrugged when Megatron glanced at him, and Starscream was too busy looking insulted at not having been addressed to provide input. His scowl could easily have killed a mech, if looks were capable of killing. Optimus was pointedly ignoring him, focusing the entirety of his attention upon Megatron instead, as if he was the only mech in the room.

How could he refuse, when Optimus was _challenging_ him like this? How could he send Optimus away, when this was the closest they had been with one another in millennia?

“Well, who could refuse such generosity from a Prime?” he said at last, voice acidic. “Very well. If you wish to push this charade even farther…”

Optimus stared at him, this time in disapproval, and pressed the drink into his servo. Their digits touched as Optimus pulled away, electric sparks lighting Megatron’s circuits where they brushed.

“It seems to me that the Prime and the Lord Protector should be capable of speaking civilly to one another at gatherings and state functions,” said Optimus. “Especially given their past.”

Megatron’s lip curled. This again? Why was Optimus so focused on reminding him of Champion’s Hall? They had not spoken of that evening, nor the many months that followed it, in such a long time. There must be some sort of underhanded reason for the reference. He did not dare presume that Optimus might be _pining_ for him. “Are you referring to the war we fought in opposition to one another, or the friendship we once entertained in our youth?” Megatron lifted his glass to the light, examining it closely. Assassination seemed a more likely motivation for such tactics. Poisoning, perhaps? That would explain the drink. But nothing noticeable shone in the glass, and when Megatron glanced at Optimus, he was smiling in amusement, shaking his helm as if to say, _Only you would try a trick that low._ “If the latter - that was a very long time ago. A great many things have changed since then.”

Optimus considered that, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Have they? A certain warlord reminded me this evening that some things remain a constant, even after all this time - perhaps especially where ‘friendships once entertained’ are concerned.”

The air between them crackled, suddenly thick with static. Megatron’s gaze snapped to Optimus, field incredulous. _You did not mean - I know you didn’t - You couldn’t possibly think -_

Optimus didn’t look away, holding Megatron’s gaze. He lifted his glass and held it nearby, waiting for Megatron to repeat the gesture.

“To Cybertron,” he said.

Megatron swallowed, intake flexing beneath its armored shield, and finally lifted his own glass, clinking it against Optimus's. “To Cybertron,” he replied hoarsely.

As soon as the toast had concluded, Megatron felt the air around him relax. Conversation all over the room had ceased as the pair spoke, all optics clapped upon them: waiting to see what Optimus would do, what Megatron would do in reply. Now that it appeared to be a rather mundane conversation, everyone had begun to drift back to whatever they had been saying before, wary fields lowering with relief.

“Starscream, drink?” said Knock Out, pointedly taking Starscream’s arm.

Starscream glanced at Megatron, waiting for instruction. For once, Megatron was grateful to him, if only for this instant. Megatron hesitated, but finally nodded, gesturing. “Dismissed, all of you. I will summon you when you are needed.”

Grumbling, the trio wandered off, glancing uneasily over their shoulders until the crowd closed in around them.

And now at last they were alone - as much alone as they could be tonight, at any rate. Megatron looked into Optimus's face, studying him with a wary, distrustful gaze. Optimus merely smiled in reply, optics aglow with a strange, glitching light. Almost as if… 

No. Surely not. This must be Optimus's first drink, mustn’t it? He wouldn’t dare risking more, certainly not when Megatron was the root cause of his drinking in the first place.

“Were you truly so starved for intelligent company that you were forced to seek me out?” Megatron drawled, gesturing to the Autobots on the opposite side of the terrace. “Or did the fawning sycophants surrounding you finally overwhelm you? I do not recall that you were particularly fond of receiving such fervent attention.”

Optimus gave a soft laugh. “The weight of others’ expectations does begin to wear on me, I find. I imagine you feel much the same.”

“I wouldn’t know, never having ascended to your heights of power.”

“Is that so, my Lord Protector? And here I believed us on equal footing through the entirety of the war. Even now at its conclusion, I have endeavored to be fair with you.”

Ah, now they were throwing titles in each other’s faces. Petty, but not unexpected. There was something delightful about witnessing Optimus sinking to his level. “How generous! Yet I would not dare to consider myself the equal of Primus’s favored child,” said Megatron, giving a slight, mocking bow.

Optimus lowered his glass, suddenly very serious. “I don’t very often feel that Primus favors me, given that the things I truly want never come to me.”

Megatron blinked, thrown off-balance by the remark. What in the Pits of Kaon did _that_ mean? Here Optimus stood, beloved leader and war hero, admired and worshipped by the entirety of Cybertron - and yet he would have Megatron believe he did not have all that he desired? The absurdity of the idea was laughable - laughable, and infuriating.

_If this is not what you wanted, Optimus, then I would happily have taken your place._

Optimus finished the last of his high grade, looking surprised when a waiter materialized an instant later to take his glass and give him another. “Oh,” he said, blinking. “Thank you.”

The waiter bowed, glancing nervously at Megatron, and scurried off again, back to where he was more comfortable - the Autobot side of the room. Megatron glared after him, annoyed. _Naturally he paid me no heed, yet served the Prime the instant his glass was emptied. Yet again Orion Pax attains favors and gifts purely because of his status._ “You’ll forgive my incredulity, I trust. When mechs all but trip to give you all that you require, it is hard to imagine you as anything but favored.”

“Oh, I am certainly fortunate - there is no denying that,” said Optimus. “I have been blessed in caste, in job placement and in friendship, all due to an accident of my birth. I would not call it fair or just. There are thousands who are eager to offer up material goods of all sorts to the Prime, and I could easily live in luxury if I chose to while others suffered beneath my pedes - but that has never been my desire.”

“So I’ve heard.” There was an unwanted feeling stirring in Megatron’s chest, a protective instinct he had long suppressed: a depth of affection he had chosen to ignore in favor of the enmity he had nurtured instead. Here and now, when Optimus was looking at him so softly, he could no longer ignore that warmth, that longing. “I’ve seen the tower where you make your home. Your habsuite is as modest as they come.”

“And you’ve made quite the luxury apartment for yourself in Kaon,” said Optimus, smiling over the rim of his glass. “You’ve done improvements since the last time I visited the Pits, if the images I’ve seen are any indication. It looks lovely. I would like to see it in person sometime, if you ever feel the inclination to invite me.”

“As if you would ever consider visiting the Pits again,” Megatron said disdainfully. “Besides, what reason have I to invite you to my private domain? You certainly would not welcome me in yours.”

Optimus tilted his helm, taking a slow, significant sip of his drink. “On the contrary, my lord. My door is open to you whenever you should care to visit.”

**[OPTIMUS.PRIME{DESIGNATION:BELOVED}=FLIRTING?]**

Megatron’s processor stalled out for a blink, vision flashing red with anger. His field spun out of his control, and while he was silent and cold, his field was screaming: _Don’t you dare, don’t you dare, don’t you dare -_

“And what use would such a visit be?” Megatron snarled. “Do you hope to shame me with the utility of your quarters? Don’t play me for a fool. It’s clear your austerity is all for show. The great Optimus Prime could never be seen to be extravagant, after all! How your reputation would suffer if you suddenly proved yourself to be as shallow as the rest of us. No, no, the Prime must remain ever-holy, and ever holier-than-thou.” He took a drink, a rustle of his plating betraying his discomfort. “Your self-serving modesty does not impress me.”

The speech was so outlandish as to be absurd, a gross mischaracterization of everything Optimus was and had ever been; Megatron knew that all too well. Worse, Optimus knew he wasn’t convinced of the argument. A disapproving quirk of one optic ridge told him as much as the Prime pursed his dermas, glossa clicking against his teeth.

 _You are trying not to see the good in me,_ said his eyes. _You are trying to pretend I am the same as the Primes who came before me, even though you know I am still, in my spark, the archivist you loved. It hurts you to see it. To know it. To know what we could have had. That’s why you can’t bear to be reminded of it._

But aloud, Optimus only asked, “Why would you believe I do it to impress you in the first place?”

Megatron stiffened, optics glitching. “What?”

“Why would you believe that any of my actions are designed to earn your favor?” Optimus pressed. “In your mind we are nothing more than enemies, generals with a history so ancient it is all but worthless to you.”

“I have never said that,” Megatron growled. “You are putting words in my mouth.”

“Then explain what you mean so I can understand.”

Optimus was crowding him now, leaning closer, field just barely kissing Megatron’s own. Everything about Optimus felt as dangerous and explosive as a supernova, like holy light so blinding that beholding him directly was almost certain to strike Megatron dead. He was effervescent and open and it hurt to be this close to him, to feel him fully unwound and unguarded this way after centuries of presenting only the aloof Prime’s shell.

What in the Pit had gotten into him?

Megatron glanced away, glaring at the surface of his drink. “You know perfectly well what I meant.”

“Do I?” Optimus blinked, almost batting his eyes, and took another sip. “I wasn’t aware I had to work particularly hard to impress you in the first place. I understand you have uttered the oft-quoted phrase _‘Optimus Prime never disappoints’_ on a multitude of occasions - perhaps including this one.”

“Such ego!” Despite himself, Megatron’s dermas twitched into a smile. He liked to see this confident Optimus, self-assured and coquettish and clever: no longer naïve, no longer afraid to pursue what he desired. To call things as he saw them. “You’ve let my compliments go to your head.”

Optimus beamed. “What can I say? Your compliments were and still are my favorites.”

Megatron’s engines rumbled, bafflement washing through his field. He could fully admit that Optimus had thrown him off here. He didn’t know what to make of this conversation, nor could he guess Optimus's intentions. Optimus clearly was enjoying this change in the order of things, a tiny, good-humored grin on his lips.

Well, that wouldn’t do. Time to win back some of his dignity. Megatron smirked, and Optimus's smile fell, and Megatron thought he heard him mutter, _“Oh no,”_ under his vents.

_Oh, **yes** , Optimus. If you won’t play nice, then neither will I._

“Your _favorites,_ hmm? I have many more that I could give you that you might enjoy far better, my Prime,” Megatron purred. Optimus's field erupted with heat at the implication, a slight blush coloring his faceplate. “But I think I’ll keep those to myself. It’s terribly uncouth of you to accept my compliments and not return the favor, after all.”

“Oh! I suppose that’s true.” Optimus took a long, considering sip from his glass, frowning down at its surface. He must have been attempting to think of something devastatingly charming to say; but devastating charm had never really been his forte.

Finally, he lowered his glass and said, quite matter-of-factly, “I’m not certain my compliments are fit for polite company.”

“Really?” Megatron’s optic ridges shot up, a grin lighting his face. “Well, now you’ve made me quite curious, Optimus! What compliments would you pay your Lord Protector that others cannot hear?”

“Mm.” Optimus tilted his helm, allowing a flirty little flick of his finials. He took a single step towards Megatron, vocals lowered to a soft whisper, deep and considered and accompanied by the most blatantly amorous stare Megatron had ever seen from him. “ _My_ Lord Protector is as brilliant and as cunning as he ever was,” he murmured. “And doubly as handsome.”

Megatron barely forestalled the instant short-circuit the words tripped in his processor. Optimus Prime still thought him _handsome?_ Surely not. Surely there was some ulterior motive lurking there, some reason he might be attempting to misdirect Megatron’s attention. He quickly ran through the list of current political matters he was overseeing, wondering which Optimus might wish to draw him away from; but all were areas where Optimus had tacitly approved of Megatron’s decisions. There was no reason, short of actual flirtation, that Optimus might be playing games with him.

“Why, Optimus Prime, are you _coming on to me?”_ Megatron said in mock affront.

Optimus blinked, smiling to himself. “And if I am?”

“If you are,” Megatron said, gaze locking on Optimus's mouth, “I question the motivation, and whether that high grade is clouding your judgment.” There could be no other cause for this sudden change in Optimus's behavior. Megatron had wondered before, but now he was almost certain Optimus tipsy at best, and outright drunk at worst.

The Prime shrugged. “It might be,” he said. “You did say I refused to drink because I feared to loosen control over my feelings, did you not? You were correct, of course, as you well know. I believe they call it ‘liquid courage’ for a reason.”

“Do you consider this courageous? Playing the flirt as though you have no ulterior motive for pursuing me?” Megatron took pleasure in the way Optimus flinched, the sudden coldness of his voice deliberate, like a blade in the back. “I’ve not yet found your angle, but I’m certain there is one, no matter how much you pretend innocence.”

Optimus frowned, a sullen look flashing across his face. “You are so stubborn,” he said angrily. “Why can’t you accept me for what I am - what I have always been? Can’t you see what I have been trying so hard to give you?”

Megatron frowned in turn, disconcerted. “What are you talking about?”

Optimus - _reached for him._ They were in the middle of a crowded room and yet Optimus was grabbing for his hand, field burning with painful earnestness as he began to close the distance between them. “Don’t you know?” he asked. Megatron’s vents caught sharply, optics flaring to their widest setting. Did he dare - could he hope -? “Can’t you see how much I - ”

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted. “Pardon me, my lord Prime - if I might steal you for a second…?”

And just like that, the moment was over. Whatever Optimus had been about to say was gone, forever lost to both himself and Megatron, as though fortune itself had stolen it away from them.

Blinding rage burned through Megatron’s every circuit as his helm snapped in the direction of the intruder, ready to rip his helm off.

Whoever he was, he would pay for what he had just ruined.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron swallowed, holding Optimus’s gaze. “Whatever I told you earlier, you should consider stopping after this one,” he said, nodding to the glass in Optimus’s hand. “You would not wish to get carried away, I imagine - certainly not at my behest.”
> 
> Optimus’s faceplate wrinkled, like a youngling whose creator had just scolded him. “I’m fine.”
> 
> “I don’t think you are,” said Megatron. His field was sharp with static and it burned beneath Optimus’s fingers, burned so much it almost hurt to touch him. “You ought to slow down. I don’t recall that Orion Pax ever held his high grade very well.”
> 
> Oh, so it was fine for Megatron to reference Champion’s Hall, but an underhanded tactic if Optimus did it? Optimus’s frown deepened. “And who are you to make that decision? You are certainly not my keeper.”
> 
> “I was, once.”

Optimus’s helm snapped towards the unfamiliar voice, a thunderous frown upon his mouth. The room spun a little after he’d completed the gesture, which was odd; he’d never felt so dizzy after such a quick turn. He was clearly getting too old for parties like this. Perhaps his anxiety was affecting him? Or maybe it was the heady rush of having _almost,_ but _not quite,_ said the words...

Naturally he’d been interrupted before he could say what he’d meant to. Fate would never be so kind to him. Never mind how warm and lovely he felt, how much his circuits were buzzing merely from standing in Megatron’s presence; the moment was all but ruined thanks to an errant stranger.

Optimus longed, desperately, to shoo the mech away, to drag Megatron somewhere where they could speak alone. Where they could fan the flame of whatever softness was blooming there between them.

But he was a Prime, and he had duties, and those duties came before whatever personal desires he might have harbored, no matter how precious they were to him.

“What can I do for you?” he said instead, struggling to control the coldness in his voice. From the slight pull of Megatron’s lips, he gathered he had failed at the task.

“My name is Switchwire,” said the small blue and orange mech before him, offering him a bow. “I wanted to introduce myself - I’m one of the new liaisons to the Council for Cultural Affairs on behalf of Crystal City.”

“Ah. Welcome, then.” Optimus swirled his glass, taking a nervous swallow. Which number was this again? He could no longer remember. Fourth? Fifth? Did it even matter? This was a party, after all, and Ratchet had told him he ought to _loosen up._ He just wanted to do so with Megatron.

 _Only_ with Megatron.

“I was hoping to get a chance to chat with you,” said Switchwire, reaching for Optimus’s arm. Optimus recoiled, wearing the fearsome scowl of an archivist chiding sparklings for running in the library. “I have several matters I would just _adore_ your opinion on - ”

Megatron had hold of his arm before Optimus could blink, pulling him away from Switchwire with a vicious snarl. Optimus glanced at the clawed digits clinging possessively to his elbow joint, heat spreading through his lines at the touch. _Oh. There he is. My overprotective mate. My Champion._

“Do you have a death wish, or is your processor merely glitching?” Megatron hissed. His grip tightened, holding Optimus firmly in place at his side, as though Optimus would even consider leaving him. “The Prime's attention is _clearly_ required elsewhere at the moment. The unmitigated gall of even _daring_ to interrupt - ”

Switchwire's optics snapped wide, a nervous hum sounding from his engines as he seemed to realize the gravity of his error. Optimus almost pitied him. "Perhaps later, when I am not in conversation with another mech?" he said, hoping to calm Megatron.

"A mech of significantly greater importance than some Newspark from Crystal City," Megatron said, casting Switchwire an even frostier glare.

Switchwire’s optics narrowed, resentment burning through his field. Still, however foolish it was of him to have interrupted, he was not stupid enough to fight the Emperor of Destruction himself. “Of course, Lord Megatron,” he said, giving an overly elaborate bow. “Forgive the intrusion. Find me later when you’ve a spare moment, Prime.”

Optimus nodded in acknowledgment, venting in relief when he turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Megatron glowered after the mech's departing back, plating rippling with his irritation. His rage at the interruption was frankly disproportionate to the annoyance it had caused, but that only gave Optimus cause to hope. Megatron had wanted to hear what it was Optimus had to say. Megatron had wanted that confession as much as Optimus had - even if the moment was ruined now.

Finally, Megatron shook himself, turning back to cast Optimus a pointed look as he released his arm. “You are not required to entertain the rudeness of the masses, you know,” he said. “One day, you’ll have had enough of such niceties, and you’ll erupt in a fit of rage too great to take back.”

“Is that what you do?” Optimus asked, too lightly, too coldly, before he could stop himself. “Befriend, be kind, and then erupt over nothing?”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Really, Optimus? You wish to do this here?”

 _I’d do it with you anywhere, my lord._ “I suppose that wouldn’t be the polite thing to do, would it?” Thank the Primes he hadn’t actually spoken that first thought aloud. He frowned down at his cup when no high grade graced his glossa. “Oh. Empty. Disappointing.” He looked up and gestured to a waiter nearby, who quickly scurried over and handed him another full cup.

When he turned back to Megatron, the Lord Protector was glancing between him and the glass with a single optic ridge arched in disapproval.

“What’s _that_ for?” Optimus asked, gesturing with his free hand while sipping from his cup.

Megatron gave an unbearably lordly tilt of his helm. Primus, did he know how handsome he was? He must. He had to. The way he stood with his servos folded behind his back and his chin lifted proudly and his gorgeous, perfect hips on full display… by the Pit, Optimus needed to tell him. He needed to - he needed him to know how _beautiful_ he was, how cherished, how -

“What is _what_ for, Optimus?” Megatron asked.

Optimus swallowed a mouthful that was too large, desperate to cool himself. Those _vocals,_ rough as the stony passage of a mine, sharp as a dagger in the back, made his circuits flare with charge, sizzling through his undercarriage. “That face you’re wearing,” he said. “That _judgemental_ face. I have committed some sin in your book, and you are noting it to crow over later. What have I done to displease you, my lord?”

Megatron smirked to himself. “Shall I start with the alphabetical list, sweet one, or would you prefer it chronologically?”

Optimus laughed. _Sweet one._ He’d called him _sweet one._ How long had it been since he had last heard that particular endearment? His spark swelled, warm and bright and overjoyed. “Let’s try and keep it to this evening, shall we?” he said. His servo came to rest on Megatron’s arm, alighting there as if this was its home perch. It felt, for a moment, as though some internal joint that had been loose and chafing had finally clicked back into place. “I would not wish to book the venue an extra century or two for the purpose.”

Megatron glanced at that servo resting on him, staring as though he’d never in his life been touched like that before - which Optimus knew wasn’t true. Had Megatron avoided being touched during the war? That seemed likely; he had always hated to be vulnerable, hated to give openings to those he did not believe he could trust. There was certainly no trust to be had among Decepticon High Command. Optimus stroked the plates of Megatron’s arm with his thumb, humming softly as he felt the familiar vibrations of Megatron’s engines running through him.

Megatron swallowed, holding Optimus’s gaze. “Whatever I told you earlier, you should consider stopping after this one,” he said, nodding to the glass in Optimus’s hand. “You would not wish to get carried away, I imagine - certainly not at my behest.”

Optimus’s faceplate wrinkled, like a youngling whose creator had just scolded him. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are,” said Megatron. His field was sharp with static and it burned beneath Optimus’s fingers, burned so much it almost hurt to touch him. “You ought to slow down. I don’t recall that Orion Pax ever held his high grade very well.”

Oh, so it was fine for _Megatron_ to reference Champion’s Hall, but an underhanded tactic if Optimus did it? Optimus’s frown deepened. “And who are you to make that decision? You are certainly not my keeper.”

“I was, once.” The words were very quiet, and it took Optimus several moments to process them - moments that Megatron used to move on before Optimus could gather himself to comment. “Regardless, I am Lord High Protector now. I believe that position initially was intended for the Prime’s bodyguard and most loyal warrior, was it not?”

“You have chosen not to use the title in such a fashion,” Optimus noted sourly. “You seem quite determined to destroy my body rather than guard it.”

“There are many ways in which to destroy someone,” Megatron replied, eyes very bright. “Which I am aiming for changes by the day.”

“How comforting.” Optimus took another long, deliberate sip, daring Megatron to argue with him about it. “Do you require another drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Megatron, pursing his dermas. “Optimus… what brought you to me, exactly?”

Optimus blinked. Was it not obvious why he had come here? “You _challenged_ me,” he said. “I could hardly let that go unmet. Besides, I wanted to see you.”

Megatron’s field bled offense. “You see me regularly.”

“No. Not as I would like to.”

Megatron made a frustrated sound. He was as sharp and prickly as the plating he wore, and Optimus wanted nothing more than to soothe him. Hold him. Murmur compliments to him until he calmed. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Optimus considered that. It was hard to put words to what he wished to convey just now, when Megatron was so close and so warm and so _big_ and his circuits felt so fuzzy and hot… “The Megatron I see at state affairs is _Decepticon Warlord Megatron,_ ” he said at last. “He is imposing and bitter and cunning, and he has no love of me by necessity. Though we should be working together to better the future for Cybertron, we are instead ever plotting against one another, working to counter the other’s purpose. I wanted to see _my_ Megatron - the private Megatron, the circumspect and thoughtful mech who stole the spark of a young archivist with his words. I’d hoped… I’d hoped…”

He paused. Looked up into Megatron’s face. Read only shock and discomfort there, a flicker of uncertainty passing through red optics. Optimus closed his eyes, lowering his helm. He had been too obvious again, too honest, too open. Megatron was upset and it was his fault, it was always his fault… why, why could he never do anything right when it came to the mech he loved? He only wanted to be _enough._

Optimus gave a quiet, sad little smile and let his servo fall away, his field burning with a longing he could not put into words. “Ah. I’ve made you uncomfortable, I see. Forgive me. Perhaps you’re right about the high grade.”

“Of course I’m right,” said Megatron, hoarsely. He hesitated, considering what to say. “Did you get what you desired, then? Did you see the Megatron you wished to see?”

Optimus smiled, expression softening. “I think I caught a glimpse or two of him. It is good to know he is still there.” He reached up and gently brushed his digits over Megatron’s cheek. “I’ve missed him so very much.”

Megatron blinked as though he was rebooting, the puzzled dip of his helm quickly turning into a nuzzle of Optimus’s servo. He froze, realizing what he had done, what he was still doing, and Optimus sensed the eruption of humiliation and anger in his field as Megatron snarled and pulled away.

Without giving it much thought, Optimus caught Megatron’s servo before he could move too far and pulled it up to his lips, planting a gentle kiss upon scarred knuckles that had scraped his plating and bruised his internals more times than he could count.

_Be well, my love. I would give you the very sun if I could._

“Enjoy the party, my Protector,” he said, letting Megatron’s servo fall; and then he turned and gracefully sailed away, back to the cluster of Autobots on the opposite side of the terrace.

* * *

Megatron stared at his hand as though he had never seen it before. His knuckles itched where Optimus’s lips had touched them, and though no mark remained as evidence, he felt as though he had been branded. That kiss still burned through every line and strut, flooding him with an ache he had never anticipated feeling again.

**[OPTIMUS.PRIME{DESIGNATION: ~~{ENEMY}{RIVAL}{BELOVED}{FRIEND}~~ {????}} = INTENTION:{UNKNOWN}]**

Optimus Prime had sought him out.

Optimus Prime had _flirted_ with him.

He had become a far better flirt in the intervening years since the war began. Orion would never have thought of the clever, coy remarks Optimus had so freely spouted - he’d been too new to both battle and berth for that. Optimus had had millennia to practice witty banter and perfect the craft. Mid-battle repartee had become their peculiar, grotesque version of flirting, and Megatron had always enjoyed that. Looked forward to it. _Craved_ it.

 _Ah, yes. The oft-quoted ‘Optimus Prime never disappoints.’ I suppose that applies here too._ Megatron’s dermas twisted into a joyless smile as he turned his hand this way and that, looking at it under the delicate lights of the terrace. His examination returned little but increasingly wild speculation, emotional subsystems throwing out a raging storm of confused data and hesitant conclusions, marked with glyphs of doubt and question.

Optimus could have used his status to steel hearts and minds against Megatron - but he hadn’t. Optimus could have stayed with his Autobots and pointedly ignored Megatron and his Decepticons - but he hadn’t. Optimus had _chosen_ Megatron, whether from too much high grade or loneliness or some impulsive sort of nostalgia, and now everything that was familiar had shifted, the axis of Megatron’s universe entirely thrown off. The ground beneath his pedes, once stable and certain, had shifted into quicksand and he was drowning, falling, falling back into a place he’d never intended to return to again.

_Orion, Primus, don’t you know I would give you the very sun if you asked for it?_

He glanced across the room, seeking Optimus in the crowd. He wasn’t difficult to spot, with his towering frame and bright red paint and broad, powerful shoulders. Megatron watched as Optimus paused by Ratchet, tilting his head back to admire the stars. For a moment, his face reflected the sky above it, peppered with starlight: constellations dusting specks of light across the silver of his plating. What was the word the humans used? _Freckles?_ Yes. That was it. Freckles made of stars.

Megatron’s optic lenses zoomed in and snapped an image before he realized he was doing it, saving a quick-shot series to a specially-marked permanent memory file in the time it took him to vent.

**[SAVEDTO : ORION.PAX{DESIGNATION:MINE}-4.000.002-243.07.002-11:07:28]**

Megatron felt a hollow yearning in the cavity of his chest, an ache that pulsed and howled and demanded his full attention. An ache he had been fighting for centuries. An ache that was now impossible to keep at bay.

_Can’t you see what I have been trying so hard to give you?_

Optimus was moving again, patting Ratchet on the shoulder before wandering away. He was not to the point of stumbling yet, but there was a sleepy, dreamy look upon his face that he had often worn before he’d become a Prime, an openness to him that he had long ago ceased to display willingly. A waiter stopped him, offered him another cup - and Optimus took it without thinking, pressing it to his lips and continuing to meander through the crowd, staring at the stars above him. He looked, just then, like an archivist intoxicated: fumbling his way through pockmarked streets, leaning on his gladiator companion for guidance.

Only the gladiator was standing across the room, pathetic and pining, knuckles still tingling where Optimus had kissed them.

 _There will have to be some changes,_ Megatron thought, watching Optimus pause across the terrace. He was bathed in the glow of the moon, like a holy aura embracing him: beauty in its purest form. _If he is sincere - if he intends what I now think he does - my plans will have to shift. But that’s alright. It’s not the first time I’ve changed tactics. In fact, this may make some things easier._

He felt Starscream and Knock Out’s approach before he saw them, their fields alight with shock and curiosity. They’d been tittering somewhere in a corner, no doubt, watching the whole thing - watching Megatron stand here like a lovesick fool, staring after Optimus as though he was the very heart of the heavens. _Which he is. Which he has always been._

“Did my optics deceive me, or did _Optimus slagging Prime_ just kiss your hand?” said Knock Out, from somewhere to Megatron’s left.

Megatron glanced over his shoulder, lip curling in annoyance. Whatever his personal feelings on the matter, he would not allow his underlings to see them. “Our illustrious Prime must be having a difficult evening,” he drawled. “I believe he is well on his way to being drunk.”

“Well, I’ll attribute that moment of madness to the amount of high grade he’s consumed and nothing more, then,” said Starscream, popping up on Megatron’s right. He sniffed disdainfully, examining his sharpened claws and allowing Megatron to feel the wash of disapproval in his field. “Though I note our fearless leader did not seem altogether keen to refuse him.”

“Starscream,” Megatron growled, glaring at the mech. “You would be wise to keep some observations to yourself.”

“That’s hardly a denial, master. Perhaps I was a bit too on-the-nose?” Starscream smirked, preening, wings flicking upwards with pride at the jab, and oh, how Megatron wished to throttle him.

“I think you’re wrong on several fronts,” said Knock Out, studying Megatron’s hand curiously. Megatron watched him with a cool, dispassionate gaze, annoyed at the interruption. “Even if Prime is drunk - which he doesn’t seem to be to me - that fond little gesture can’t have come from nowhere. He’s been thinking of you in such a light for quite some time, I would guess.”

Despite himself, Megatron began tracing the path that idea illuminated: that Optimus Prime had spent the war missing him - that Optimus had intended, in the end, to have Megatron at his side when peace was won. Was that what he had meant by _Can’t you see what I have been trying so hard to give you?_

A question to be explored later, when he was not being plagued by commentary from those still in his service.

“Please,” Starscream scoffed. “Are you seriously suggesting that Optimus Prime has harbored _feelings_ for our Lord and Master over four million years? Don’t be absurd!”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Starscream, Optimus has always made every effort to find common ground where he can,” Knock Out shot back. “If his aim was to slaughter Lord Megatron, he’s certainly done a poor job of it.”

“You might say the same of Megatron himself!”

“Starscream,” Megatron said again, sharper.

“Apologies, master. Of course I would not dare imply - ”

Megatron rumbled low in his chest, glancing coldly at the commander until he stuttered into silence. Never mind that he was _correct._ Optimus and Megatron had been dancing around one another for millions of years, flirting with death and each other in equal measure; but Megatron had no intention of admitting that to anyone but Optimus himself, and even then, only assuming he was right about Optimus’s intentions.

Megatron swept the room again, noting that Optimus was leaning heavily against the safety rail now. He clenched his servos behind his back, working his jaw and endeavoring not to appear concerned. “He’s going to fall off the terrace at this rate,” he muttered to himself.

“How fortunate that you can fly, then, my lord,” said Knock Out, sly humor pressed into his field.

“True!” Starscream brightened, an equally sly and far more dangerous gleam in his optics. “Your role as Lord Protector would bid you to rescue him - though I suspect your eagerness to do so stems from far less _noble_ places.”

That was enough. Megatron turned, bristling, plating flaring in a familiar intimidation pattern. “Do not speak of things which you neither know nor understand,” he snarled, glaring down into the seeker’s face. “There is only so much I will tolerate from you, Starscream.”

“Of course, master.” Starscream shifted nervously, tapping his digits together before offering an overly-elaborate bow. “Forgive me my presumption.”

“It is hardly the first of such presumptions from you,” Megatron shot back. “If you do not soon learn to clamp your vocalizer, be assured I will not hesitate to tear it from your throat!”

Starscream cringed, cowering and ducking behind Knock Out as though the small red medic could protect him. “Master, please, I never meant - ”

Megatron bared his teeth, fist curling, the threat on the verge of being carried through - but the calmer voice of reason quickly prevailed, though not through Megatron's own will.

 _::Throttling Starscream in public: amusing, but unwise,::_ came Soundwave’s comm. Megatron had no idea where Soundwave was, but clearly he was observing the situation from some dark corner, most probably perched vulture-like upon a column and peering down at the crowd below him. _::Optimus: would not approve.::_

 _::And why should that matter?::_ Megatron retorted, although of course he knew the answer.

_::Soundwave: presumes it matters a great deal to Megatron, given what Soundwave has observed this evening.::_

Megatron shuttered his optics and vented sharply, running a servo over his face. In the shock of the moment, he hadn’t had time to consider this outcome: his entire High Command making a mockery of him, questioning his intentions as well as Optimus’s. Dealing with them was all but second-nature to him by now, but the task was made more difficult when his processor was in turmoil over the very incident they were using as the basis for their mockery.

Megatron hissed and turned away. “Begone, both of you,” he commanded. “I have no need of you at present, and I suspect we shall all enjoy the evening more _without_ each other’s company.”

Starscream gripped Knock Out’s servo and yanked, trying to scurry away before Megatron could change his mind; but Knock Out stood firm, studying Megatron with a quizzical expression. “What did Big O want, exactly?” he asked.

 _That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it._ “To see an old friend,” Megatron said. “Nothing more. Now, _shoo._ ”

Knock Out shrugged, sighing, and allowed Starscream to pull him away this time, leaving Megatron alone in the midst of the crowd.

It was a relief to be left to his own devices. Megatron had much to do, after all, now that he’d caught a glimpse of what Optimus might be angling for. Optimus was tired and lonely, and truth be told, so was Megatron: tired of fighting, tired of playing Starscream’s games, tired of planning and plotting his every future move.

Megatron moved to the balcony opposite the one on which Optimus stood, looking out over the vast swathe of Iacon below him. He closed his optics and focused on the feel of the wind over his plating, tuning out the sounds of the crowd behind him. He did not often allow himself moments of fantasy, especially not since Optimus had become his enemy; but he could not quite help it when his mind began to wander, traveling paths it had not taken in a long, long time.

In the earliest days of the war, he had imagined that perhaps Optimus could be won to his cause: that he and Optimus might still rule side by side, leading the planet to a glorious future both as its leaders and as a bonded pair. That cherished, pathetic delusion had withered and died the longer the war dragged on, and the harder Optimus fought him. He had come to understand that between them was an impasse that neither would ever cross willingly, that the chances of bringing Optimus into the Decepticon fold were approximately 1,000,000,000,000 to 1. Optimus valued lives more than victory, and as long as Megatron’s end goal involved destruction and bloodshed, Optimus would never join him - no matter the very practical necessity of said bloodshed and destruction.

The only solution, he’d come to believe, was to extinguish Optimus’s spark. He had hated the idea at first, and then he had grudgingly accepted it. Then grown accustomed to it. Then treasured it, _dreamed_ of it. Optimus had betrayed him, after all, shattering his spark so thoroughly and intimately that Megatron had ceased to feel much at all. Optimus deserved death. It was not merely prudent; it was _justice._

Odd, the way a handful of months could change things.

The truce had altered nothing at first. Megatron had not believed it would last, and neither had his Decepticons. He had had plans for a hostile takeover as soon as the opportunity was presented to him. But then Optimus just kept being _useful_ \- necessary, even. Having a Prime at his side made the many trials and tribulations of re-establishing a society on Cybertron ten times simpler, and Optimus’s cooperation had served as a shield for his Decepticons against those who sought to do them harm.

One day, he’d looked around himself and realized that he had helped build a society in which he and Optimus were inextricably linked, whether he’d intended to or not. They were ruling side by side, exactly as he’d once hoped they would, no matter how much they fought each other on the Senate floor (and oh, how he relished those arguments: battles of wit and words instead of weapons, both he and Optimus as skilled in rhetoric as they were with their blades).

Suddenly, having Optimus at his side, both as co-ruler and as something more, no longer seemed so impossible.

When he had been a young gladiator, he had planned their bonding ceremony in detail, down to the color of the ceremonial capes they would wear and the glyphs they would use to decorate their frames. He had shunted aside the memory of those ridiculous fantasies in favor of battle tactics and long-term strategies, but now, sometimes, he would catch himself looking speculatively at Optimus and wondering how he would look in purple, and what glyphs he might wish to wear to signify their union. What it would take to convince him to accept such a union. If he would touch Megatron as softly as he had once touched Megatronus.

It was absurd, and it was foolish, and yet he could not help himself - least of all when Optimus himself seemed to be angling for the same thing.

It was close enough to taste, now: that future, that bonding, that tantalizing berthroom daydream. Megatron _burned_ for it. He wanted Optimus working with him rather than against him. He wanted Optimus aiding him in his plans, putting every Cybertronian to use in patching the fissures of the governmental structure they were tentatively hoping to build: the fissures that too ominously reflected those that had caused the start of the war. He wanted, with the kind of burning longing he’d once felt only for the throne, to wake with Optimus in his arms, blinking and smiling when he saw that it was Megatron who held him.

He opened his optics, releasing a prolonged, stressed vent. He was getting ahead of himself. Optimus had been soft with him, but that was hardly a guarantee that the future Megatron foresaw for them would come to pass. His spark and head both ached with all the _what-ifs_ he could not account for. It was all a bit much for an evening he had expected to spend collecting information on those he would subdue, and nothing more.

He was beginning to regret not accepting Optimus’s offer of a second drink, though he certainly didn’t need it to be maudlin and circumspect. Regretfully, Megatron acknowledged that reaching the same level of intoxication Optimus must currently be experiencing was not a good idea, anyway. He was an angry drunk, and the last thing he needed was for Optimus to see him like that - all brutality and aggression and sharp edges.

Assuming, of course, that this wasn’t a very clever ruse.

Megatron frowned, fists clenching before him. Optimus had never been a particularly talented liar, but Megatron could admit that he was easily blinded in this area. Optimus knew that, surely - how Megatron had to armor his spark against him every time they met. How easily he could play Megatron for a fool by seducing him.

Suddenly everything seemed more complex than it had even moments before. Megatron growled, frustrated, trying to guess Optimus’s game - if there even was one. Was Optimus just lonely and sad and missing his old lover - or was Megatron fooling himself into believing as much?

Megatron checked his chronometer. He had spent a solid hour staring out into nothing, plotting. Daydreaming. Orion Pax would have been proud. He grumbled, gathered himself, and turned back to the crowd beyond, surreptitiously seeking Optimus’s silhouette.

**[OPTIMUS.PRIME{DESIGNATION:??????}=MISSING. LOCATE OPTIMUS.PRIME{DESIGNATION:{EMPTY}}? TRACKING.DETAIL=MISSING. CANNOT LOCATE OPTIMUS.PRIME. TRY AGAIN?]**

Frowning, Megatron searched again; still nothing. A third time. Nothing.

Where in the Pit could he have gotten to?

Megatron was careful to control his vents as he made his way back into the crowd of Senators and Councilmechs. He would not panic over this. Optimus was fine. He was probably emptying the contents of his tanks over a balcony ledge somewhere, or swarmed by fans while sitting on a couch. If none of the Autobots were showing any concern, there was no reason for him to be worried, either… was there?

He swept the terrace again, to still no sign of the errant Prime. Perhaps he’d been escorted home. Megatron could see Ratchet convincing Optimus to leave if he was drunk enough. _As your acting physician -_

But no, Ratchet was standing near the edge of the Autobot crowd, also frowning, helm swiveling this way and that. His gaze caught Megatron’s and stilled there, and in an instant the pair had exchanged the equivalent of a two-minute conversation as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud.

_Have you seen Optimus?_

_No. Have you?_

_No. Missing?_

_It would appear so._

_… Scrap._

Megatron was only aware he’d moved towards Ratchet when the medic met him in the middle of the divide between Bots and Cons, optics narrow with worry. “I swear he was just here,” Ratchet blurted out, running a hand over his helm in agitation. “He’s not with you?”

“Obviously he is not with me,” Megatron snapped. “He left me over an hour ago. Last I saw, he was wandering through the crowd in a half-drunken daze.”

“Primus,” Ratchet muttered, glancing around. “I wanted him to unwind, but not like _this._ We can’t alert anyone that anything is wrong just yet.”

“I think it’s rather late for that,” said Megatron, too sharply. He could feel the weight of the room’s stares upon him, shocked fields crashing over him in waves. No one expected to see him communicating so freely with the top Autobot medic. “Comms?”

“I’m trying, but he’s not responding,” Ratchet said, glaring at the wall. “His signal’s still online, and he’s close, so he hasn’t left, and he’s not dead...”

Suddenly a loud _thud_ sounded from the floor below them: a balcony level upon which the terrace sat, where other mechs may have wandered to hobknob and make deals. It was loud enough and heavy enough to make the support struts of the building shudder beneath its weight. Something that heavy… something _that_ large…

There was only one realistic possibility as to what had caused that shudder.

Ratchet and Megatron exchanged a single look before racing towards the lift.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why?” Optimus asked, vocals breaking. “Why would you push me away? Why do you always push me away?”
> 
> The words struck him like a cannon’s blow. _It was not I who accepted a title never meant for me! It was not I who betrayed the sacred trust between us! It’s you, it’s you, even if I pushed it’s your fault -_
> 
> _If I do not push first, then you will, and that’s a pain I cannot bear._

Optimus had forgotten what it felt like to be drunk.

He realized, in a vague sort of way, that he had made a colossal miscalculation by not paying more heed to the amount of high grade he’d consumed. He was certainly not in any state to be having conversations with important diplomats, nor was he of sound enough mind to judge who was attempting to manipulate him and who was not.

Worse, he was not in any state to hold his tongue should someone say something he disliked.

Optimus knew all of this, and yet he was also not quite willing to leave the party just yet. He was having a nice time, for once. Everything was quiet and soft and blurred, and he was thinking fondly of the bright, flustered look on Megatron’s face when he had kissed his hand. He was thinking of how he might earn that look again: what soft gestures he might use, and on what occasions, and how he might find a way to meet with Megatron alone.

Perhaps Megatron would take him home tonight. That would be lovely, too.

There was a reason that that was a bad idea, but Optimus couldn’t put his finger on what that reason might be. He let himself idle over the idea as he sailed through the crowd, making his way into the open lift. Could Megatron still hold him, or did he weigh too much now? Megatron had lifted him in battle before, but that was a different sort of holding. A combative grapple using his bodyweight as leverage wasn’t the same as cradling him to his chest.

Primus, he missed the feel of Megatron’s servos on him. At least when they fought against one another, there had been reason to touch him and be touched by him, however violent those touches were. Now he was starving for some kind of contact, any kind. He’d even take a punch to the faceplate if that’s what Megatron preferred.

Speaking of contact… someone was tapping his arm.

“I was hoping I might catch you alone,” said Switchwire, expression full of cheer. “Do you have a moment?”

Optimus made a low, rumbling noise, which Switchwire apparently took as acquiescence. While Optimus did not particularly wish to have any political conversations at the moment, he was glad he didn’t have to use actual words to make himself plain.

“I mentioned I am sitting on the Council of Cultural Affairs, didn’t I?” Switchwire said. He moved to grip Optimus’s arm, looping his own familiarly through the Prime’s. He was reminded, rather uncomfortably, of Crosscase’s servos on him, and he had to fight the urge to pull himself away.

“It may have come up,” Optimus managed at last.

“Excellent. I wasn’t certain if you remembered, given how distressing your conversation with Lord Megatron appeared to be. Drink?”

Optimus frowned as Switchwire pressed a drink into his hand. “I’m told I ought to stop, actually.”

“Who said that? Megatron? Please.” Switchwire scoffed, nudging Optimus to take the high grade. “What that _Con_ doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Optimus looked down at Switchwire in disapproval, still taking a sip of the high grade to be polite. “That _Con_ is the Lord High Protector,” he reminded him. “I blame - _hk,_ pardon - I blame no one who holds ill will against him for crimes committed during the war, just as I do not blame any Decepticons who feel similarly about me - but even so, he is as deserving of your respect as I am, regardless of whatever personal feelings you might carry for him.”

Switchwire smiled, patting Optimus’s arm. “That’s very generous of you to say! You are a merciful leader, Prime.”

Optimus blinked, arching an optic ridge as he continued to sip at the high grade in his hand. Oh, that was a bad idea. He could feel himself getting dizzier, his tanks rebelling against its sweetness. _Megatron was right. I should tell him. He’d love to hear me say that aloud, and I’d love to see him smile._ “What - hmm - what was it you wished to say about… councils? Affairs of some sort, I think?”

“Cultural Affairs, yes.” Switchwire guided Optimus firmly through a small crowd of unfamiliar mechs, sporting all sorts of badges and looking startled to see the Prime there among them. “We’ve been tasked with Kaon's rehabilitation, and I was hoping to get your thoughts on some of our ideas.”

So the reconstruction efforts had finally begun moving towards Kaon - no doubt in part due to Megatron’s co-opting of resources for the endeavor. “I see. Megatron would be best-suited to assist you in that area,” said Optimus gravely. “He spent all his earliest years there - ”

“Well, yes, I will grant you that,” Switchwire hedged. Why did he seem so displeased at the mention of Megatron and Kaon? The two were connected, and no one would provide better guidance on restoring Kaon than Megatron, who knew its culture so intimately. “But, to my understanding, he would be staunchly in favor of remaking things exactly as they were, which of course isn’t our goal! Our aim is to improve things, and my friends all tell me Kaon was... er... not a very nice place before the war.”

Optimus blinked, attempting to process the words. He drew to a halt near the center of the large room, aware that something about the comment wasn’t right. “Megatron would never wish Kaon to be the same as it was,” he said. “He would like to see it elevated and valued equally with Iacon, I imagine, which - _hhk_ \- excuse me - would surely be your intention?”

“Oh, there is no city which could ever be Iacon’s equal!” said Switchwire, pressing a scandalized servo over his spark. “Iacon is our capital and the jewel of Cybertron. None shall ever compare. Still, we thought it might be best to reformat Kaon to match Iacon’s architecture. Commission a few prominent artists, set up a few upscale hab towers, pay a few celebrities to make their homes there. Turning the city into a desirable tourist attraction could certainly rehabilitate the area - ”

Iaconian architecture and expensive hab towers - in _Kaon?_ An alarm sounded somewhere deep in Optimus’s brain module, concern bleeding into his field. “You are misguided in your thinking, I believe,” he said, frowning. He spoke slowly to make sure the words came out right, enunciating too clearly, too cautiously. “Kaon was once home to a vibrant, rich culture of laborers and servicemechs who performed the menial day-to-day work that kept Cybertron running. Many such mechs have now returned there in the hopes of reviving that culture, but freely. Restructuring Kaon in imitation of Iacon in order to appeal to the former elite of Cybertron is not the answer to your problem, nor would I advise ignoring the unique style of architecture in Kaon, as it is found nowhere else.”

“Describing what they produced there as _culture_ is… quite generous of you, my lord Prime,” Switchwire said, wrinkling his faceplate in distaste. “Having looked at some of the images from before the war and knowing the kind of mechs who lived there, I've yet to find much value in the things produced there outside of the practical. No great, creative minds ever emerged from the mines and factories, after all!”

Optimus stared. His vision narrowed to Switchwire’s smug, disdainful expression, audials locked on his cold laugh, and suddenly, without warning, Optimus was _furious._

How was it possible they had come so far, and yet so little had changed?

When Optimus began to speak again, his vocals were deathly quiet, flat anger in his eyes. “Chromeslinger, _The Smelter._ Sculpted of metal, gemstone, wire, and blowtorch, circa 4790PW. Gadget, _Scrapyard Scurry._ Crushed mineral paint on stone, circa 13789PW. Megatronus, _Towards Peace,_ literary work, circa 256PW. Groundgrind, graffiti artist, in operation from 768PW-012WT, innumerable works now destroyed save for image files - ”

“Um… sir?” Switchwire looked puzzled, tilting his helm and offering a helpless shrug. “I’m not certain what you’re referring - ”

“I am cataloguing, for your knowledge, the many Kaonite artists and writers risen from the low castes whose works remain in the Hall of Records,” Optimus said. He could hear a slight slur in his vocals as he began to speak faster, louder, but he couldn’t bother himself to feel embarrassed about it. “There was once a thriving art scene as part of the rebellion: underground galleries with works miners and factory workers made in the few quiet hours they were allowed, created to share with others of their caste and expressing the pain and oppression of their existence. We catalogued what we could, but there is so much that was lost to us, either from disruption and destruction by the High Council or the ravages of time… so much that was not given to us to preserve because they did not trust us to care for their art as we should have. And frankly, they were right.” Optimus shook all over, glaring down at the mech before him. “As a Newspark, you have much to learn about our history, Councilman. You may wish to reconsider your stance. The many dead of Kaon deserve to be remembered.”

Switchwire reset his vocalizer, disconcerted and looking uncomfortable. “Ah. How… generous of you to share your wealth of knowledge with me. I can see that you are very passionate about Kaon.”

“I am passionate about the… the… the _diversity_ of life on Cybertron,” said Optimus. It was hard to find the words just now, when his processor was moving slowly and his judgment was so impaired. “It was always an interest of mine, long before the war began. As an archivist, I studied the specific subculture of gladiators in the Pits. My paper on the topic is widely available to be read - I shall send you a copy if you wish to educate yourself on the matter.”

“How thoughtful.” Switchwire’s frame burned with humiliation and annoyance. Clearly this conversation was not going in the direction he had anticipated. “I'm sure the paper is fascinating, Prime, but many of your supporters wonder if it is wise to encourage the Decepticons to believe themselves of equal importance to the rest of us. They are monsters, after all - violent brutes, laborers who contribute little but raw strength to our efforts to rebuild.”

For a moment, Optimus felt his optics cycle, his circuits buzzing loudly inside his frame. Surely he did not hear - surely Switchwire had not said -

But he did. And he had.

Optimus brought himself to his full height, fists clenching at his sides. High grade and fury combined into a potent potion, heating his lines. _This is not what I fought and nearly died for. This is not what centuries of warfare was intended to do. I will not allow this to happen again. I **will not.**_

“Do you see those mecha?” he asked, angrily gesturing towards a cluster of gaping Decepticons. Their expressions suggested they had overheard the whole conversation, and that they were quite startled to find _Optimus slagging Prime_ of all beings as their defender. “ _Do you see them?_ ”

Switchwire nervously reset his vocalizer, glancing at the wary Decepticons. They bristled as he looked at them, ready to shift their weapons open at the slightest provocation. “I - my lord Prime, I do, but - ”

“Do they look any different than you or I?” Optimus demanded.

“I… I don’t understand the question.”

“I want you to look me in the eye and tell me what makes _those_ mechs ‘lesser’ than _yours,_ ” Optimus growled. He realized his voice was too loud, that _he_ was too loud, that he was looming unsteadily over the mech in question and gesturing too vehemently. His lines prickled, energon hot and bubbly as it ran through him, faster and faster and making him dizzy. “What quality have you identified within them that means they deserve less than you?”

Switchwire bristled in turn. “They’re war criminals! Everyone knows that!”

Optimus gave a hollow laugh, furiously draining the last of his high grade and tossing his cup aside. “So am I,” he replied. “So is Ratchet. So is Bumblebee. If you are judging by who has the most energon on their hands, Switchwire, well, then, your quarrel is with me. Do you have the slightest concept of the horrors I witnessed, the violence I committed, the justifications I made to myself that goaded the war onward? Of course you don’t, because _you. Weren’t. There. None of you were there!_ ”

Switchwire made an incensed sound, looking flabbergasted. “I - regardless of my status as a Newspark, I have studied the war _most_ extensively and discussed it with my circle of friends, and - ”

“And so you know it better than I, the mech who fought it?” Optimus retorted scathingly. The light of his eyes was reflected back at him, fully ablaze and bright as any bonfire. “One of the mechs who arguably _caused_ it?”

“My lord, no one blames you for the war,” Switchwire said, aghast. “No one could ever - ”

“But is that not the heart of the problem?” Optimus’s head was spinning with memories: the constant battles, the gore and violence that still twisted his internals in his dreams, the _guilt,_ the endless, weary suffering that had plagued him for centuries… “Perhaps I _should_ be blamed. I could have tried harder, I could have compromised, I - I should have - I - ”

Optimus lurched, the room spinning abruptly. His vision blurred as he swayed in place, all the high-grade hitting him at once. He reached out, groping for something to support him, his stabilizers beginning to fail him as he stumbled -

The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, staring at the ceiling and wondering how the Pit he’d gotten there.

* * *

When they arrived on the lower level, Megatron and Ratchet were greeted by the sight of a steaming Optimus Prime sprawled out on the floor, blinking in confusion. He seemed profoundly puzzled as to how he had found himself down there, a bewildered, glassy look in his optics as he glanced between himself and the mecha now looming above him.

He looked so much like his archivist self just then that Megatron’s spark seized, hard, flickering and flaring within his chest.

That moment of softness barely lasted. In the next vent, anger flooded him - anger with Optimus, for refusing to listen to him; with himself, for even now feeling so _protective_ over the mech who had betrayed him; and with every other slagging mech present, all of whom were just standing there, tittering, refusing to help him. Even the Autobots, which was perhaps the worst thing of all.

“ _Vector Sigma,_ ” Ratchet swore, staring in horror. “What was he _thinking_ \- ” 

“He wasn’t,” Megatron said, glaring. “I _told_ him he ought to stop, but I believe the reply, _‘You are not my keeper, Megatron’_ was quite kindly thrown in my face.”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Ratchet muttered under his vents. 

“And yet, here I stand.” Still no one had made overtures to assist Optimus. He didn’t expect his Decepticons to bother - Optimus was, in their minds, their enemy, after all; but the Newspark Switchwire was just standing near him, exchanging a look with a pressbot and choking on a shocked laugh. Megatron’s gaze swept the crowd, and slagging Pits, there were _far_ too many pressbots on this level, far too many cameras and gossip columnists and shady characters who would use this moment against Optimus for centuries to come.

If he’d been in a different frame of mind, he would have been gleefully celebrating this gaffe with the rest of them. If he’d been smarter - if he wasn’t twisted up in feelings too ancient and too stubborn to disappear…

He waved the branching tree of regrets aside. This was not a moment for hesitation. A choice was clearly set before him, and he had already made it before sense could reassert itself.

Megatron found himself storming through the crowd, cold fury burning through his circuits. As he shoved his way through, he spotted mecha who were supposedly Optimus’s allies (though none close personal friends - that would have been worse) staring at him while pressbots circled, beginning to snap pictures. No one was helping him. No one was helping him. Optimus would be sick with shame tomorrow and _no one was helping him -_

“Cameras off!” Megatron barked, startling pressbots and servers and gaping, giggling mecha alike. He heard the snap of a camera behind him, and his helm wrenched in its direction, optics flaring with light. He growled, reached out, and captured the responsible pressbot in one fist, promptly using the other to punch out the camera in his forehelm and tearing out the data chip containing the images he’d taken. “ _What did I just say?_ ”

“Hey!” A flustered and annoyed reporter pushed her way to the front, presumably to defend her coworker. “You can’t confiscate our footage! We have a free press on Cybertron now - you can’t just - ”

“I believe you’ll find I _can just,_ ” said Megatron, rising to his full height. He cracked his neck joints, _loudly,_ looming directly over the reporter and her cowering cameramech with a snarl straight from a nightmare. “I daresay I am the _only_ mech who _can just._ And on the topic of opinions… would you care to hear what I think of this ever so urgent reporting you proclaim to be championing? I’m happy to explain at great length to you, for as long as is necessary to make my point.”

The reporter rapidly shook her head, making a small beeping noise as her pressbot ducked behind her in terror.

“Hmm. That’s what I thought,” Megatron sneered, turning away.

The crowd had now parted around a still-dizzy Optimus, who was currently attempting - and failing - to get up. Ratchet was at his side now, at least, working his jaw to hold back the torrent of enraged scolding he was no doubt preparing for his friend. Megatron strode through the empty space and yanked Optimus to his feet, furious to have been put in this position.

Whatever soft fantasies he had been entertaining before, playing _nanny_ to a drunk Prime wasn’t part of them.

“What are you doing?” Megatron hissed, clutching Optimus’s wrist hard. “You are _better_ than this, Optimus. I distinctly remember telling you to stop - ”

Optimus looked up, bright blue optics wide and glitching; and Megatron was suddenly a gladiator again, cradling the frame of a young archivist he loved just outside the oilhouse he’d frequented.

He swallowed, forced to reset his vocalizer. _Calm. Calm. You can scold him tomorrow, when he will presumably be better-equipped to hear it._ “Are you hurt at all?”

Optimus blinked at him, slow, curious - and then he smiled: smiled like he was looking at the sun after centuries in a cavern, smiled like he’d beheld the face of Primus himself.

“Megatron,” Optimus rumbled, reaching out unsteadily to lay his servo against Megatron’s gleaming chest plates. His touch was familiar and shocking, like lightning striking his armor, and Megatron barely stopped himself from recoiling.

Optimus wobbled, and Megatron was forced to intervene, catching him around the waist. “Steady, Optimus,” he said. “Steady.”

“Megatron…” Optimus blinked, smiling wider and leaning into the touch. Black digits caught Megatron’s pauldrons and clung to them for balance, his glassy gaze drifting down towards Megatron’s mouth. “I was… hm… was just thinking about - ”

“Prime!” Switchwire’s voice, echoing from their right, was strangled with horror. “Prime, you - do you know who that _is -_ ”

“Be quiet,” Megatron snarled to the mech. _I am going to find some way to remove him from the picture, come hell or high water._ Then, softer: “Go on, Optimus. You were thinking…?”

“ - Remembered the rallies,” Optimus said. He looked as though he had to concentrate to get the words out, wearing a somber frown. “The ones where you would speak and then greet our like-minded Cybertronians - do you remember?”

Megatron swallowed against a tightness in his chest. “Yes, Optimus. I remember,” he said. “You were smaller then; you fit under my arm much better.”

“Wish I could still fit there,” Optimus mumbled. He planted his face against Megatron’s chest with a soft _thunk,_ nuzzling affectionately against the shiny silver armor as though they were still lovers, as though it had not been centuries since they had last touched like this.

It was wonderful, and it was weak, and Megatron promptly panicked.

_Not yet. Not now. I’m not ready yet, my plans - there is still so much preparation - I did not intend - I did not think - it isn’t time - !_

Megatron stiffened and shoved Optimus away from him as though his mere touch had burned him.

A betrayed look flickered in Optimus’s optics. An agonized sound tore free of his vocalizer, as though he had been stabbed through the spark. Megatron hated that sound, that expression, that _betrayal_ that made him feel like he had done something wrong, like he had shattered whatever fragile, lovely thing was growing between them in a moment of fear.

“Why?” Optimus asked, vocals breaking. “Why would you push me away? Why do you _always_ push me away?”

The words struck him like a cannon’s blow. _It was not I who accepted a title never meant for me! It was not I who betrayed the sacred trust between us! It’s you, it’s you, even if I pushed it’s your fault -_

_If I do not push first, then you will, and that’s a pain I cannot bear._

“Go home, Optimus,” Megatron spat, trying to walk away. Optimus attempted to stumble after him, forcing Megatron to turn and grip him by the shoulders. “Home. _Now._ Before you embarrass yourself any further.”

Optimus’s brows furrowed, an angry stare replacing the bewildered, wounded look on his face. “ _You’re_ embarrassed.”

“Well, if you currently aren’t, you certainly will be,” Megatron snapped. “You of all mechs cannot act like this. You _can’t_. Does the opinion of Cybertron’s leadership mean nothing to you?”

Optimus swayed, very nearly unbalancing. He clutched at Megatron’s hips to stabilize himself, clinging to the seams too familiarly to be coincidence. Anyone with optics would see how quickly he’d found those weak spots in Megatron’s armor and wonder how he knew them so well. “Why should it matter?” Optimus asked, vocals full of contempt. “It appears I fought an entire war on the basis of equality, only for new divides to create themselves in my wake. The mech I once prayed would come home to me is still my enemy, despite my best efforts; and somehow, my people have molded me into an idol - I, a fallible, naive, hopeless little archivist who never knew a thing - ”

“ _Stop it._ ” They’d reached the self-loathing part of drunkenness now, apparently, which meant Optimus was even further gone than he was currently letting on. “This is not the time to discuss this. Not while you’re like this. _Go. Home._ ”

Optimus straightened and looked directly into Megatron’s optics, grabbing his arm with a ferocity that made Megatron pause. “When will it be enough?”

Megatron’s processor ached, his emotional subsystems close to complete overwhelm. “When will _what_ be enough?”

“This!” Optimus said, gesturing emphatically to the room around them. “When will you be satisfied? When will you forgive me the crime I never intended to commit, the betrayal of your trust I never wished to make? What must I do to prove myself? I remade our planet with you, set you a status equal to my own, gave you councils and senates and military command, and still it’s _not enough -_ ”

Megatron choked.

Despite the fantasy he’d allowed himself to entertain, he hadn’t truly believed Optimus meant what he said. He’d thought perhaps a seed was there that he could twist until it grew into the shape he wanted: a thread he could pull to unravel Optimus and win him over bit by bit.

This was not _bit by bit_.

Was Optimus saying what he thought he must be? Was Optimus implying he wanted Megatron at his side again, now, immediately, in front of this entire crowd of gawking mechs? That he wanted Megatron’s affection, that he wished to renew the relationship they’d once had?

No. No, he was misunderstanding, he was missing something, because Optimus Prime would never -

“What must I give you to make you see it?” Optimus asked. His optics were wide and wet, his field open and aching and tasting of a terrible, familiar longing: a longing Megatron knew intimately. “My word? My life? My throne? I would give you whatever it took if you would only believe it. Would _this_ be enough?”

He leaned back, stumbling a little, looking downwards towards the floor -

And then his chest plates drew back completely, baring Optimus’s spark to the entire assembled crowd.

Megatron froze. He could not help but stare, gasping at the blazing beauty now exposed to him. He had briefly glimpsed it once before, standing in the heart of Unicron’s frame; but then it had been turned away from him, his frame wracked with agony as Unicron exerted control over him. It had not been like this, direct and open and aimed straight at him.

This was a deeply intimate, personal act. No spark was meant to be consumed by this many people, not like this. But Optimus hadn’t bared himself for this audience.

He had done it for _Megatron_.

“Is this what you require to believe me, to know I do not lie?” Optimus said, vocals ragged. “Then take it! The spark within was yours already. _Take it._ ”

Megatron was suddenly aware of his own vents. They were coming in harsh rasps, a deep, shaking sound coming from somewhere in his internals. It was wrong, it was _wrong_ to stare at Optimus’s spark; but how could he do otherwise? Its warm glow bathed his frame in Optimus’s whole being. He wasn’t even conscious of the Matrix. He’d seen illustrations enough to recognize it, and it mattered not that it was there. What mattered was the spark that gleamed at its center, white-blue and throbbing with the ebb and flow of Optimus’s very life force: beautiful and perfect and blindingly bright, possessed of a purity of energy he had never before seen…

A tendril of light uncurled from that spark and touched him, kissing his plating; and then, oh, then he was overwhelmed, awash with a sorrow so profound it threatened to bring him to his knees. Optimus’s sadness. That’s what he was feeling: the burden of the Primacy, the grief that had never healed, the mourning that had never ceased for Megatron, for Cybertron, for every mech he had ever fought beside. Megatron felt for the first time the toll this fight had taken on the mech he loved. And he felt, above all these things, how much Optimus still burned for him in turn, how much the mech who had become the Prime yet loved him -

Optimus was still standing there, staring at him, his optics aglow and full of the same trust once reflected in Orion Pax’s face. That spark was right there, open to him, exposed and ready for him to cradle or destroy at his whim. All he had to do was take it.

Megatron moved as swiftly as he ever had, too fast, too fast to be stopped. His servos darted towards that naked spark as if to choke the life from it -

The light faded, doused, as Megatron closed the open plating of Optimus’s chest and sealed away his spark.

Optimus grunted in protest, reaching for Megatron’s hands to tug them away. Megatron caught his wrists and pulled Optimus close, but softly this time, one arm sliding around the Prime’s back to support him so that he would not fall.

“Not here, Optimus,” he murmured. “Not like this.”

Optimus shivered, and then his helm _thunked_ softly against Megatron’s chest, his cheek pressed just above Megatron’s own spark. “My Champion,” he murmured, optics glitching, half-shuttering as the light within them dimmed. “I want - I only wish - I wanted _peace -_ ” 

“Hush.” Megatron bent and scooped Optimus up into his arms. It was surprising how easy it was to lift him, even in his taller, broader form. It had been a long, long time since Megatron had last held him properly. “Let’s get you home.”

Optimus burrowed against Megatron’s throat, pressing his faceplate to the metal shielding there with a soft hum. “I _am_ home,” he mumbled. “I’m with you.”

That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair or kind or - or _expected,_ and Megatron hadn’t felt this vulnerable in centuries, he hadn’t hurt like this in so long -

He couldn’t do this here. He couldn’t. Optimus shouldn’t be exposed to further mockery, and Megatron couldn’t have the imminent meltdown he could feel coming at him in this place, surrounded by enemies and underlings. He drew cold anger around him like a cloak, spinning on his heel with Optimus in his arms and starting for the door. “Get out of my way,” he snarled, and the crowd parted at once, exchanging nervous glances.

“I don’t think - ”

“Should we allow Megatron to - ?”

”What if they blame Megatron for - ?”

“Wait, can’t we get - ?”

“No,” Megatron growled over the rising hum of protests. “I will care for the Prime personally. You’ve done enough to him for the night.”

He half-expected to find Ratchet blocking the door, but the medic merely nodded at the words, weary resignation in his optics. “Go on, then,” he said bitterly, waving a hand. “Get him home.”

Megatron frowned, but didn’t stop to question. There would be time for that later. For now, Optimus needed to be cared for, and Megatron needed to be alone.

He had a great deal to think about, and quite a few plans to shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely didn't intend to make everyone think Optimus fell off the balcony, although that would have been HILARIOUS XD I hope this resolves the issue to everyone's satisfaction!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron considered Optimus for a moment, forcing emotional distance despite his subsystem's violent protestations. “There was a time when I entrusted you with a gift I never deigned to grant anyone else: the gift of my very spark. With you I shared my dreams, my plans, my darkest thoughts. I designed the future I foresaw with you forever at my side - and then, in the space of moments, you were gone. I made a place for you within my spark, and you _abandoned_ it. You _betrayed_ me.”
> 
> His field spun out of his control again, stuttering with anger and hurt he only dredged up in his darkest moments: reliving the pain of Orion Pax ascending to the role they had agreed would be Megatron’s. Remembering how Orion’s shadow had haunted him for weeks afterward. Remembering the ache of a hole in the cavity of his chest that he could never fill again.
> 
> “Perhaps the Megatron you wish to see is never revealed to you because _he_ no longer trusts you,” he finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to wrap this up in 5 chapters but uhhh... this one got away from me. So, the sexy bits are going to be in the next chapter XD Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

Optimus’s quarters were exactly as mundane as Megatron had anticipated they would be - certainly more mundane than Orion Pax’s quarters had ever been. The habsuite was smaller and the shelves fewer, and there were no star charts or paintings or photographs of friends upon the walls. There was a desk, a workstation, a comfortable chair for looking out the single picture window he’d allowed himself. A berth. A washracks. It was plain and austere and utilitarian, and Megatron hated even looking at it.

This wasn’t done for show, he realized dully. This was a _punishment._ Optimus Prime was punishing himself for the crimes he believed himself to have committed: the lives he’d lost, the mecha he’d failed to convince, the planet that had been left desecrated in the wake of the war he hadn’t been able to prevent.

Optimus did not think himself deserving of any luxuries - not even those he’d had before the war began.

Optimus was still curled against Megatron’s chest, close to recharge by the look of his dimmed biolights. His frame was running hot, which was neither surprising nor acceptable. He would need to be cooled down before he could be put to berth. Megatron focused on the tasks ahead of him for now, swallowing against a pang of guilt, and carried Optimus to the washracks, kicking the solvent stream on and knocking it to _cool._

Optimus blamed himself for Megatron’s stubbornness. He blamed himself for the planet they had decimated _together._ He was punishing himself for Megatron’s sins as much as his own, and that was difficult to bear just now, when Optimus had so willingly opened his spark for Megatron.

Perhaps he believed his spark was just another sacrifice he must make as reparation.

Megatron growled to himself and settled into the washracks with Optimus in his lap, allowing the cold solvent to hit them both. Maybe a good splash of cool liquid would startle him from this melancholy mood.

Optimus grunted in displeasure as his chest and abdominal plates took the brunt of the stream, jolting into wakefulness. “It’s cold,” he complained, trying to shift closer to Megatron.

“And _you_ are overheated,” Megatron replied, forcibly shifting him back around again. “I am attempting to cool your frame so that your core temperature no longer sits in the danger zone. Hold still.”

Optimus made a discontented noise, reaching for Megatron’s servo and lacing his digits through it. “You _are_ aware there are more pleasant ways to achieve that end, are you not?”

_Primus._ Megatron laughed despite himself. “Not while one’s partner is drunk. I believe I made my position on intoxicated berthmates quite clear before the war.”

Optimus huffed, but smiled, laying his helm on Megatron’s shoulder. His optics were almost entirely closed, lids unshuttered just enough that he could peer up at Megatron if he wished to. “There you are,” he murmured, clumsily groping for Megatron’s face. “ _My_ Megatron. The one that only I ever see. Why must you hide yourself away like that? I miss you. I miss being with you.”

Megatron’s spark constricted harshly in his chest. He considered Optimus for a long moment, wondering how much he would remember tomorrow. How much his memory files could even repair. If he would remember it if Megatron was too honest…

“I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that this _Megatron_ you perceive as yours is only hidden from _you_ ,” he said at last, bitterly.

Optimus’s eyes snapped open. “What do you mean?”

Megatron considered Optimus for a moment, forcing emotional distance despite his subsystem's violent protestations. “There was a time when I entrusted you with a gift I never deigned to grant anyone else: the gift of my very spark. With you I shared my dreams, my plans, my darkest thoughts. I designed the future I foresaw with you forever at my side - and then, in the space of moments, you were gone. I made a place for you within my spark, and you _abandoned_ it. You _betrayed_ me.”

His field spun out of his control again, stuttering with anger and hurt he only dredged up in his darkest moments: reliving the pain of Orion Pax ascending to the role they had agreed would be Megatron’s. Remembering how Orion’s shadow had haunted him for weeks afterward. Remembering the ache of a hole in the cavity of his chest that he could never fill again.

“Perhaps the Megatron you wish to see is never revealed to you because _he_ no longer trusts you,” he finished.

Optimus’s hand fell away, a confused, angry look in his eyes. “What delusional nonsense is that?” he snapped. “I was only ‘absent’ because you gave me no choice!”

Megatron, inadvisably, shoved Optimus away from him, hissing with fury. “Speaking of _delusional nonsense -_ ”

“No, don’t you dare,” Optimus growled, clambering back around to face Megatron. “Don’t you _dare_ blame me for this, too. I will carry the weight of the war, of my failures, of my inability to convince you to stand down - but _not_ this, Megatron. Not _us._ ”

Optimus was venting hard now, shaking minutely - but there was no optical lubricant in his eyes, no mercy, no forgiveness. This was the purest sort of anger Megatron had ever seen from him, a wound torn open and left to bleed afresh.

“Have you truly forgotten how many times I attempted to reach you, how long I spent begging for one single word from you?” he demanded. “I commed you nearly a thousand times and received no reply. I came to your quarters when comms failed to raise you, and was met with a force of gladiators who cast me out at once. When I broke through that same force on my third visit, I pounded at your door and begged for you to listen. _Hours,_ Megatron. _Hours_ I shouted at your doorstep, until my vocalizer malfunctioned and bled into static. Don’t you _dare_ tell me you did not hear me!”

Megatron sat frozen, spark stuttering in his chest. A precipice was opening up before him, a cold, bleak sort of dread that had always lurked around this painful memory - a dread he had avoided, until now.

He could lie to both himself and Optimus and claim he had not heard the shouts outside his door, nor the hoarse, whispered endearments that came after - the endless pleading that finally slipped into defeated silence as the sun rose on another day. He could lie and claim he recalled none of these things, that Optimus’s memory was glitching, that what he spoke of had never happened.

He could have lied then - but he didn’t.

Megatron swallowed, struggling with the demon of his pride, and at last choked out, “I heard you.”

Optimus threw his hands up. “My missives went unanswered, my calls ignored, my every attempt to see you rebuffed,” he said. “What did you wish for me to do? Haunt your steps until a more charitable mood struck you, not certain that it ever would? You made it clear the instant the High Council chose me, against my explicit wishes, that the title I’d been granted was more important to you than I had ever been.” His optics gleamed with a terrible, fearsome light, the very force of Primus aglow from within him. “I never betrayed you, Megatron. _You_ betrayed _me._ ”

His vocals had gotten rougher the longer he spoke, low and shaking with anger, like thunderclouds rolling in on the horizon. His field was open and alive with a pain that had never fully healed: a bafflement that Megatron had allowed a title to divide them, when he had once brashly promised Optimus the sun itself.

Megatron had told himself a thousand lies over the years. He had convinced himself that his wounded pride had been reason enough to cut Orion Pax off; that Orion had wanted to be Prime despite his protestations, that nothing the archivist could say would change his mind. But somewhere in the darkest corners of his spark, he had known. He had always known that this plain, painful answer was the true one: that he had cut off the mech he loved and trusted most over a matter of pride and power. That he had lost the very star that guided him the day he made that choice.

Facing it now, Megatron felt himself teetering on the edge of a dark abyss, a guilt he had denied for centuries roaring up to swallow him.

“Was it so easy?” Optimus asked.

Megatron looked up, dazed. “What?”

Optimus was tired now - tired, and sad. The light that had so cowed the warlord had gone out, leaving only sorrow in its wake. “Was it so easy to stop loving me?”

The words winded him completely, knocking air from his vents and whiting out his vision. “ _Stop?_ ” he repeated incredulously. “ _Stop,_ Optimus? In what universe have you lived, that you believe I ever stopped?”

Optimus’s eyes cycled in tight and then spiraled outward, flaring that clear, crystal blue. “I - the war - ?”

“The war was necessary,” Megatron said, hand slashing across the air between them. “I have tried and tried to make you understand that. There would never have been change without blood spilled. It would have come to blows in one fashion or another. That it was you who led the charge against me only made it harder. You were, and still remain, the only mech who ever stood a chance of being my equal. Surely you know as much?”

Optimus stared off into nothing, a puzzled look upon his face. In the lingering pause, Megatron took the opportunity to distract himself, scanning Optimus’s systems to check his temperature. His internals had cooled considerably, and he was now of a safer temperature than before. Megatron kicked at the solvent controls with one pede, shutting off the stream in one go. “There. Feeling any better?”

“No.” Optimus glanced at Megatron, considering him carefully. “Megatron, we are not at war any longer. These few, short years have proven we can accomplish so much together, and that we can do it well. The war, if it was ever necessary, surely isn’t needed now. Whatever façade you wore as armor to guard yourself against me, you may now put away.”

Megatron gave a mirthless laugh, rising and offering his servo to Optimus. “To what end?”

Optimus gripped his hand and used its leverage to stand, shaky but soberer than Megatron had anticipated. “Do you truly think I ever ceased to love you, either?” he asked. “Over a million planets and through a million galaxies I pursued you, kept pace with you, begged to make peace with you, and you believed - what? That I felt _nothing_ for you? That I would pursue any mech in the same fashion?”

Megatron worked his jaw, struggling not to flinch. “You are drunk, Optimus. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know well enough.” He was unsteady on his pedes, but able to stand on his own now, bracing himself against the heavy glass door frame when Megatron let him go. “I wanted, more than anything, to end the war with you at my side. Even when it was unwise and dangerous, I sought to convince you that we need not fight each other. I have been told, time and again, that I was and am too soft with you, and frankly, they are right to say as much. You matter too much to me to do any less.” He looked up, venting heavily. “Whatever you believe, whatever you recall of the day at the High Council, you must never doubt that what I felt - that what I _feel_ \- remains within my spark, and will until I perish. Perhaps it is unwise to say so, but it is my truth, and I need you to hear it, whatever you choose to do with it.”

Optimus straightened. Took a step towards him. For a moment, Megatron almost believed Optimus had played at being drunk merely to have this conversation, to get Megatron alone and vulnerable - and then the Prime’s knee wobbled, his leg gave out, and he tripped and stumbled forward, falling hard against Megatron’s chest.

Megatron grumbled and swept Optimus up, carrying him into his berthroom. “Let’s make a bargain, shall we?” he said. “Tell me tomorrow, when you are sober, and _then_ perhaps I will believe you. Yes?”

“Fine,” Optimus muttered. He closed his arms around Megatron’s intake, burrowing close to him again. “Stay?”

“I intend to, if only to see that you do not choke to death on half-processed energon should your tanks decide to empty themselves,” Megatron replied. “Not in your berth, however.”

Optimus opened his optics, still glassy, but brighter than they had been before. “Why not? Afraid you won’t be able to resist my many drunken charms?”

“I’m rather more concerned about your own wandering servos,” Megatron said dryly. “You must be quite overcharged to beg for my touch like this.”

“You think so? My desire for you has not waned any more than my feelings for you ever did.” Optimus allowed his optics to close again. “Stay. I have been a fool tonight, and I’m certain I’ll earn your well-deserved mockery come morning - but I cannot bear to let you go. Not yet.”

Megatron hated the way his spark burned and ached at the words - hated how much he _yearned_ in reply. “How fortunate your Protector is not so inclined to leave you,” he said. He laid Optimus atop his berth - a plain slab outfitted only for him, as though he’d never intended to have a partner. _You punish yourself by being alone, too. Why, when you deserve so much - when we almost certainly would not have peace without you?_ “Rest, Optimus.”

“ _You_ rest,” Optimus ordered, pointing with eyes still closed.

Megatron gave a hollow laugh, hesitating by the berth’s edge. “Not likely… but for you, I will try.”

He paused. Lingered. Watched Optimus’s arm fall, listless, as he slipped into recharge at last.

Bent and kissed his helm, murmuring against the metal, “Good night, beloved.”

* * *

Optimus woke to a splitting processor-ache.

Groaning, he tried to burrow into his berth a little further, silently wishing for death. What had he done to earn this kind of agony? Parties were a pain he would have preferred to avoid, but usually not physically so. He grumbled to himself, slinging an arm over his optics and _thudding_ onto his back with an annoyed huff. He was a Prime, with the very light of Primus living in his chest, lent supernatural strength and grace due to his station; and yet he could not withstand a single evening of sipping high grade with some friends. How embarrassing.

A gruff tug on his forearm forced him to sit up, despite his mumbling protests. Ratchet, no doubt, here to treat him for whatever idiocy had brought him to this state. He was stronger than Optimus would have expected. Optimus groaned again and rubbed his eyes, unsurprised when a cube of medical grade was pressed to his dermas.

“Drink.”

Gratefully, Optimus sipped at the proffered cube, sucking it down hungrily. He felt both sick and in pain, his processor throbbing in agony. The cube helped to ease his groaning tanks, though it did not alleviate his headache much. He imagined that particular pain was only about to get worse, once Ratchet started in on his inevitable lecture. Optimus braced himself for what was to come, starting to hand the emptied cube back. “Thank - ”

He looked up at last. Froze.

Megatron loomed at his bedside, clawed digits delicately lifting the cube away and setting it aside. He looked the very picture of a noble warlord, fearsome and proud and aloof, appraising Optimus with a distant stare. Satisfied with what he saw, he folded himself into a chair beside Optimus’s berth. He must have dragged it over while Optimus slept, as it was the seat he normally kept at the picture window.

“Good morning, Optimus,” he rumbled, a tiny smirk lighting his face.

Optimus stared, paralyzed, processor spinning wildly. _Megatron_ was here, in his quarters, _alone_ with him? How? Why? He tried desperately to remember and came up empty. His recent memory files were all corrupted, still working on repairing themselves. His emotional subsystems helpfully provided a record of some of what he’d felt, in lieu of the actual memories: words like {FLIRT} and {FOND} and {ANGRY} and {DESIRE} all appearing in blinking blue code across his HUD.

Surely he hadn’t… surely they didn’t…

Optimus barely choked out the question. “Megatron, I - did - did we -?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Megatron scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course not. You were nearly in recharge when I finally brought you here, and you were nowhere near coherent enough to interface.” Megatron glanced idly at his claws, examining them as though they contained an important secret. “I would ask your pardon for staying, but as I was only seeing to your safety and well-being, I trust no forgiveness is required.”

Optimus heaved a resigned sigh, running a hand over his eyes. Somehow, knowing that Megatron had taken care of him like he was a mere sparkling felt worse than knowing they had interfaced might have. “Thank you for looking after me.”

“Hmmph.” Megatron glanced up once more, disapproving, optics narrowed and mouth pursed as if to scold him silently. “It would reflect quite poorly upon me as Lord High Protector if I returned you to your habsuite, only for you to be found dead and graying upon the floor the very next morning.”

“How thoughtful,” Optimus drawled. He fidgeted, anxious, flopping back against the pillows. “Your consideration is duly noted, my lord.”

Megatron’s engines purred softly at the title when Optimus spoke it, his eyes flashing with a dark light. Then he was somber again, studying Optimus with wary curiosity. “I could hardly do less,” he said. “You did all but beg me to stay, you know. I hardly realized you craved my presence so much, Optimus!” Optimus flinched, but Megatron did not give him time to address the comment. “Besides, it is my sworn duty to protect you, is it not?”

Optimus gave a tiny, wry smile. “I suppose it is, at that.”

They stared at one another, falling into silence. Optimus fidgeted with his coverlet, uncertain what to say, what to do. He didn’t remember much of the party the previous night, but he must have greatly overindulged if Megatron was here with him. He swallowed bile, humiliation burning through his field.

“I… don’t remember what happened,” he admitted at last, faceplate instantly aflame.

Megatron chuckled. “I would be astonished if you did. By the conclusion of the evening, you were quite tipsy.”

Optimus flinched. “I suppose you wish to gloat over my failure.”

Megatron gave a noncommittal shrug. Quite uncharacteristically, he did not take the opening Optimus had offered him.

Optimus waited, searching Megatron’s face. He wore a steadfast neutrality about himself like an extra suit of armor, calm and poised and giving absolutely nothing away. It was… unnerving. “Truly, Megatron,” Optimus pressed. “How bad was it?”

Megatron gave a thin smile, folding his servos in his lap. “I searched the Grid this morning and found that the adage _Primes don’t party_ has been updated to include an asterisk: _*With the exception of Optimus Prime._ ” He tilted his helm, staring into Optimus’s face. “Prowl, Soundwave, and Jazz are handling the PR disaster you’ve created for them, but there is only so much damage control they can do in light of your actions - one of the most notable of which, I understand, includes a shouting match with a Newspark who dared to make some unpleasant remarks about myself and my Decepticons.” Here his expression softened at last. For a moment, Optimus tasted a flare of gratitude and - did he dare believe it? - affection. “I suppose I owe you my thanks for your defense, however poorly it turned out.”

Optimus remembered, with sudden clarity, the face of the Newspark in question, though his name was all but gone from his memory banks: smug disdain shifting to shock and then to horror as Optimus’s voice rang louder and louder above a crowd, outrage and frustration and failure beating hotly through every circuit in Optimus’s frame.

“I believe he made a remark about the capacity of laborers to create great works of art and philosophy and literature - or their lack thereof, in his view. I could hardly let such remarks pass when I know so well that they are untrue.” There was more - Optimus knew there was more - but he couldn’t recall the details. “I… am afraid I remember little else about the conversation.”

“So I gathered,” said Megatron, a bit sourly. “What were you _thinking,_ Optimus? Of all the occasions to lose control - ”

“I know,” Optimus groaned, burying his face in his servos. “I _know._ I do not require a lecture on the topic. My actions, while foolish, were not intentional. A certain someone’s taunting wouldn’t leave my head, and then Ratchet offered me a drink, and then after that my drink just seemed to keep refilling, and I… well. By the time I realized precisely how drunk I was, it was too late.”

“So you would blame me for this little slip in decorum, would you?” Megatron said dryly. “I should not be so surprised. I did tell you that you ought to stop, you know.”

The words triggered something, a memory file, now repaired: Optimus, wandering, staring at lanterns then gleaming in soft focus and thinking, _I should tell him - he would love to hear me say it -_

“You did tell me, didn’t you?” Optimus sighed. It was impulsive, and probably a bad idea, but as they were alone, and seeing as Megatron hadn’t throttled him yet, it only felt right to share. “My recent memory banks inform me that I had that very thought last night. At some point, I realized, _Oh no, I’ve overdone it. Megatron was right. I should tell him. I know how much he would love to hear me say it._ ”

Megatron gave a surprised bark of laughter, one he quickly covered with a reset of his vocalizer. “It is a rare occasion indeed when you admit I was correct! What joy to finally be acknowledged as such.”

Optimus wanted to laugh, but his mind was already moving onward. More and more images were solidifying: horrified faces of mecha looming above him, Starscream’s vicious glare. His own voice echoing too loudly in the silence of a crowded room. His servos resting on Megatron’s chest.

_I involved too many people in this mistake. I let myself lose control, and this is what happened. I deserve whatever scorn I’ve earned, even from Megatron._

Optimus stared at the ceiling, avoiding the weight of Megatron’s gaze. “I suppose I must make a public apology of some sort, if Jazz and Prowl approve it. It would not do for the people to believe their Prime does not acknowledge his mistakes.”

“Perhaps. It may not be necessary, if Soundwave is successful in removing what documentation there is of the event.” Megatron’s optics were still on him, burning with familiar heat. Odd that he was still seated, now that he was assured that Optimus was fine. Should he not be making his excuses, departing to crow over his social victory? Come to think of it - why had Megatron set Soundwave on the task of removing the evidence of Optimus’s faux pas? He would have expected Megatron to disseminate the information wherever he could instead. Optimus glanced at him, wondering why he’d really stayed. Yes, it was true that he was meant to take care of Optimus; but they had been at odds for millennia, and even now in peacetime, they fought each other tooth and nail, albeit in a different arena.

Megatron could have assassinated him last night - but he hadn’t. He could have left Optimus to humiliate himself the further - but he hadn’t. He could have let reporters and gossip columnists share the story all over the Grid - but he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he?

Optimus squinted at Megatron, studying him intently. “You are waiting for something.”

Megatron made a noncommittal noise, glancing at his sharpened claws a second time. “Am I?”

Optimus narrowed his eyes, sitting up. He summoned footage from short-term archival memory to try and piece together what he was missing, but so much of it was fuzzy and corrupted, glitching at the most important parts. He remembered flirting with Megatron; that part was plain, at least, and it was damning enough on its own. He remembered thinking about telling Megatron he was right, and he remembered that stranger’s face, optics wide as Optimus’s vocals echoed all around them. He remembered Megatron’s eyes, wide and bright and softer than he’d ever seen them, his faceplate aglow with a strange blue light…

His memory stalled upon an image of his own chest plates opening, the glow of his spark shining on Megatron’s stunned face, and Optimus froze, optics going wide.

Oh. Oh, _Primus._

Suddenly all became clear to him. Megatron had not brought him here out of any sort of duty. Megatron had brought him here because he had _bared his spark_ to the warlord, exposing himself in front of pressbots and Cons and Bots and mecha from every walk of life, and he had begged - no, he had _demanded_ to know if it would be enough. He had let his emotions get the better of him for the first time in centuries, all the anguish he’d felt and hidden from before the war pouring out of him at long last.

He had admitted, openly, in front of hundreds of Cybertronians, that he was still in love with Megatron - stupidly, desperately in love with him, enough so to give him his spark in the middle of a crowded room, without caring a wit for who saw and who heard.

“Oh,” said Optimus faintly, horror creeping through his field.

Megatron snorted. “ _Oh_ is right,” he replied. “I take it you have remembered?”

“The details are not altogether clear at present, but yes, it’s begun to come back to me.” Optimus turned a florid shade of blue, bits and pieces of the things he’d said filtering back to him. “I - Megatron, the things I said - the things I _did -_ ” 

“I knew, of course, that you had imprisoned what you once felt behind a carefully guarded wall,” said Megatron, almost conversationally: too light, too casual, too careless. He was pretending what had happened had not affected him, but it _had_. He would not have stayed if it had not. “But even I did not anticipate how much you would reveal when you let that careful, diplomatic mask fall away at last. You spoke so fervently I nearly thought you were my archivist again.”

_My archivist._ Optimus’s spark throbbed, pain he had forced aside for centuries leaping to the fore. “I was,” he said. “I am. I always have been. Optimus Prime and Orion Pax are not different people, in the same way that Megatronus and Megatron are not different. You and I are who we always were, just… old.”

“You do know how to pay a mech a compliment,” Megatron drawled. “Not that I disagree.” He sighed and held out his servo. In it sat a data chip, of the sort pressbots commonly used to capture images and video. “I am not certain how much this particular mech caught of your drunken shenanigans, but there may be enough data to fill in the gaps.”

Optimus stared at it, frowning deeply. “I am uncertain I wish to see my own humiliation played back for me onscreen.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before exposing yourself at a party,” Megatron growled. Was that a hint of jealousy Optimus heard in his tone? “I can certainly erase it for you if you prefer, but you might wish to forearm yourself with full knowledge of the gravity of your error.”

Optimus vented slowly, wanting to protest and yet knowing Megatron was right. He took the chip from Megatron with great reluctance and carefully got to his pedes, flinching as his vision swam. He stumbled, pausing, pressing his digits to his eyes and cursing under his vents -

“Ah. Later, then.” Megatron’s servos were warm against his arms, his field suddenly present and echoing concern against Optimus’s own. He must have all but vaulted from the chair to catch Optimus before he fell. Optimus looked up, surprised, as Megatron firmly began to guide him back to his berth. “When you are feeling more yourself.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Optimus said, exasperated - exasperated, and secretly pleased. Megatron was _fretting_ over him. How long had it been since that had last happened? It was precious, and it was obnoxious. After all, Optimus had proven his strength and skill against Megatron time and time again. He didn’t need the warlord to hover over him - even if it was terribly sweet and terribly wonderful. Even if it made his spark skip several times in a row.

He lifted his arms as if to shrug Megatron off, but found he couldn’t bring himself to push the warlord away. His hands against Optimus’s plating felt… “I’m certainly fine enough to walk across my own - ”

He looked up, which was a terrible miscalculation. Megatron was _right there,_ face a hair's-breadth away from Optimus’s, and Optimus abruptly remembered that he stood at the perfect kissing height now, that he would barely have to pop up on his pedes to close that gap -

“ - berthroom,” he finished faintly.

Megatron had the gall to _smirk_ at him. Optimus realized belatedly that his field had curved itself around Megatron, reaching unconsciously for him as it had once been so accustomed to doing. He had conveyed that painfully romantic notion without thinking, and now Megatron was looking speculatively at his mouth, which was _awful_ and _wonderful_ and _torturous_ \- 

“I do not recall the details of my hangover after Champion’s Hall, but I was well enough to interface with, apparently,” Optimus blurted out, with far less venom than he’d intended. _Ah, yes, wonderful subject change. Good work, as always._

Megatron laughed, that low rumble from deep within his engines that washed through Optimus’s every strut. “You did display great enthusiasm for the subject, if memory serves,” he replied. “However, you are much older now, and certainly not interested in interfacing.”

“I am still perfectly capable of - !”

Optimus cut himself off, blushing fiercely. Megatron’s answering smirk would have earned him a threatening glare and possibly a punch to the vents if Optimus was feeling better. “Yes? Capable of… what, Optimus?”

Optimus growled and shrugged Megatron’s hands off, circumventing his broad frame and dragging himself towards his workstation with a grunt. “You said this data chip contained video of the party?”

“I said it may have records of some of your antics,” Megatron replied. Was it Optimus’s imagination, or did he sound… _disappointed?_ “I did not imagine reviewing said footage was so urgent a task you would neglect your guests to complete it.”

Optimus paused a second time, glancing over his shoulder at the now-scowling warlord. His spark leapt to his throat as their optics met, searching one another’s faceplates. Oh, just there - a taste of Megatron’s field, and now Optimus knew for certain he was disappointed. He had wanted Optimus to finish the thought. To flirt with him. To do exactly as he had done the night prior, when sounder judgment had failed him…

Optimus glanced away, towards the floor, wearing a tiny smile. “ _Neglect_ , you say? I would hate for you to think me inhospitable, especially after you so graciously have accepted my invitation to visit.”

Megatron’s optics flashed, a spark of interest returning to them. “I suppose I can allow you a moment to make reparations for your error, as you are clearly out of sorts.”

Optimus laughed softly. “How generous! Very well, then. How might I best entertain you, Megatron?”

Megatron tilted his helm. He looked terribly serious all of the sudden, the glint of mischief gone as he searched Optimus’s face for… something. What was it he was looking for?

“You offered me far more than an invitation to visit last night,” he said gravely. “Perhaps you ought to start there.”

Ah. Right. Optimus felt heat burn through his frame as he remembered the image of his open chest, his gleaming spark reflected in Megatron’s face. The shocked stares of a multitude of mecha around them, faded in his periphery.

Optimus instantly lifted a hand to hover over his own spark chamber, as if to slide it open once more. Megatron’s gaze snapped downward, engines stalling out as static bloomed between them. Their eyes met and locked, a lingering moment of anticipation dragging out into what felt like centuries as they measured each other, trying to determine what the other would do next.

Megatron finally broke the silence. “Well?”

Optimus blinked. “Well… what?”

Megatron rolled his optics. “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly become shy _now,_ when you exposed yourself to hundreds last night just to convince me of your sincerity.”

Optimus swallowed against a hard lump in his throat. “Hundreds?” he said. “I did not even notice them. The only mech I saw was you.”

Megatron’s field erupted. He shot upright all at once, all that sneering disdain evaporating like mist as he probed Optimus’s field for answers. Every inch of him bled anger and fear and delicate, wild hope, disbelief and longing at war in his bright stare.

Optimus had never loved him so much. He was overwhelmed by the intensity of what he felt, the need to touch and reassure. _My love, my spark - can’t you see that this is real? This fierce, fragile feeling I have struggled for centuries to hide is as powerful and true as it ever was. Don’t run. Not this time. Don’t push me away… please._

“When I first woke, I didn’t understand why you had stayed with me,” Optimus said. He needed to tell Megatron this now, while he still could: while Megatron would actually hear it. “Why you did not leave the moment you knew that I was alright. But I remember now. You wished to hear me say it while I was sober, yes? You wished to know whether I meant it.”

Megatron’s plating rippled, the largest sign of his terror at the words. In all other respects he was perfectly still, waiting, vents caught in anticipation. “Well? Did you?”

Optimus impulsively closed the small gap between them, cupping Megatron’s helm between both hands. “Do you truly not know?” he murmured, searching the old warlord’s face. “All this time, Megatron, all these centuries - and you believed I no longer loved you as I once did?”

Megatron made a choked sound, optics flaring wide and bright. “After all that I have done - after all that I did and sought to do to harm you - I did not dare imagine you would - ”

Optimus’s grip on his helm tightened. He needed Megatron to hear this, to feel it in his very core. “I love you,” he said fiercely. “Megatron, I love you, and have never ceased to love you, no matter the barriers between us. My spark has sought yours across eternities, and will continue to do so until it withers and dies in my chest. You must do as your own spark bids you; but if claiming me would be enough - if I could be enough for you - ”

Megatron vented, all in a rush, and suddenly his palms were warm and pressed against Optimus’s own helm, cradling his face. “How could you ever imagine otherwise?” he rasped. “No other being has ever been your equal, on this planet or any other. I have tried to shape the future without you in it and found it wanting every time; but _with_ you...”

Optimus’s spark skipped a rotation, a smile breaking over his face like the sun rising at dawn. “Is that a yes?”

Megatron attempted to look annoyed, and failed miserably. “There will have to be discussions,” he said. “There are things I will not concede to, even for you - as there are things I know you will not concede to for me. There are policies, portions of our roles to discuss, and the rather messy matter of publicity - ”

“Later,” Optimus breathed, overjoyed. His spark felt as though it might burst straight through his armor. “Tonight. Or whenever my processor ceases to throb. Whichever happens to come first.”

Megatron laughed, the tension broken. “Ah, yes. You were momentarily so eloquent I rather forgot your hangover.”

“So did I… momentarily.” Optimus let his servos trace Megatron’s armor, barely believing he was allowed to touch him like this: caressing silver plating as he stroked Megatron’s sides, his waist, his perfect abdominal venting. “I would give you the very sun if you asked it of me.”

Megatron gripped his chin, tilting his face upward. “Keep your sun,” he replied. “I do not want it. I have what I need right here.”

Optimus’s spark flipped, and in the next vent, he popped up on his pedes and closed that final gap, kissing Megatron with all the ferocity and tenderness in his frame. Megatron made a dark, hungry sound, taking hold of Optimus by the hips and roughly turning him towards the berth, earning a rev of Optimus’s engines -

And then, all at once, Megatron stopped, pulling back with a frown.

“What?” Optimus asked, alarmed. “What is it?”

Megatron cast a dubious look between himself and Optimus’s berth, frown deepening. “Not to denigrate your quaint choice of décor, dearest, but we may find my berth more suitable for the two of us. Unlike you, I have sought more pleasant accommodation.”

Optimus shrugged, shaking his helm in amusement. “I am comfortable enough here without any particular luxuries.”

“You do not think that you deserve them, more like,” Megatron said, scoffing. “You are punishing yourself for the war as though it is only your burden to carry. No more, beloved.” He caught Optimus’s chin, gaze locked upon his mouth. “Let me take you to Kaon, yes? I at least have a berth we can both fit in.”

Optimus chuckled, blinking coyly. “Oh? Have we a need for such a berth, my lord?”

“I have a rather pressing need to pay you compliments I could not speak in public,” he said, grinning. He bared his fangs, and Optimus shivered, heat flooding his frame and pooling behind his array. “I can show you what I mean just as well against a wall or in a chair or over a table if you _really_ wish…”

Optimus had rarely felt so giddy, a rush of delight that outdid even his first time with Megatronus stampeding through his lines. “I am open to all of the above and more, beloved… but you may be correct about the berth.”

“Of course I am.” Megatron smirked, eyeing Optimus speculatively, and then lifting a hand to his audial. “Soundwave, groundbridge to my coordinates. I am returning to Kaon.” A brief pause was followed by an eye-roll. “Yes, Optimus will be accompanying me. I’m sure he thanks you for your discretion.”

“It is rather late for discretion, I’m afraid,” Optimus said wryly. His memory banks were still repairing themselves, and with each clarifying detail, his humiliation grew. “I do thank him all the same for his efforts.”

“There, see?” Megatron paused, and then the sound of a groundbridge hummed behind them. Soundwave must have found the remark satisfactory. Megatron gave a small smile and bowed at the waist, gesturing Optimus through. “After you, my Prime.”

Optimus ducked his helm, hiding his answering smile, and stepped through the portal, spark leaping at the knowledge of what yet lay in store for him on the other side.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I must object to your recollection of the evening in question, regardless.”
> 
> Optimus frowned. “Oh?”
> 
> Megatron smirked at him, playfully tilting his helm. “If memory serves, any _seduction_ that occurred that night falls squarely in your servos, Optimus Prime. I was nearly forced to tie your drunken little self up to keep your hands off of me when I put you to berth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, my friends, for falling off the planned schedule. Life, as always, got in the way of my finishing this chapter to my satisfaction, and I've been dealing with some family stuff and work things that have been stressing me out a lot. But finally, it's done! Hopefully it was worth the long wait :) 
> 
> Also, because I'm me and wordy as all hell, I'm probably going to add another chapter to cap things off... so uh... yeah. XD I don't know why I bother to try and plan things out. My brain is a catastrophe XD
> 
> EDIT: It's been pointed out to me that there's some mild berthroom miscommunication in this chapter that can read a little dark. So, TW for one character not picking up on another's discomfort during parts of interface. It's not malicious in intent, but it is there.

Megatron’s spark hummed apprehensively as Optimus stepped through the groundbridge. It wasn’t like him to feel so anxious, but a sudden terrible and _irritating_ worry had seized hold of him as he watched Optimus walk away. The space between them ominously echoed the feeling of a chasm opening to divide them once more.

That notion had never before seemed so loathsome.

Megatron’s processor raced with questions, trying as always to skip ten steps ahead. What if Optimus changed his mind? What if, when he remembered more of the evening prior, he decided that Megatron was not forgiven after all - that Megatron did not deserve the gift of a bonding, the gift of intimacy with him?

No, this did not bear considering. Megatron worked his jaw for a moment, flexing his digits, and then followed after, burying that niggling spark of worry as far down as he was able. Was Optimus not honest to a fault, genuine and thoughtful and virtually incapable of deception? Did Megatron not know this now in his very core? Then what need had he of fear, when Optimus had so clearly indicated his desire for him?

Still, that tiny, troublesome glimmer of worry wouldn’t leave him, even as he strode through the groundbridge - and directly into his own berthroom.

 _:: Really, Soundwave? ::_ he commed, annoyed. _:: Must you be so damnably *pointed*? ::_

:: Megatron: surely intended to take Optimus there anyway? :: Soundwave replied. Megatron scowled, picturing the amused tilt of his old friend’s helm. _:: Soundwave: merely saved Megatron time and effort. Megatron: has always stressed the importance of efficiency. ::_

_:: Cease your mockery, or you will find your helm *efficiently* ripped from your shoulders when next we meet. ::_

_:: Beheading: inadvisable. Soundwave: crucial to Megatron’s operations, especially where reputation of Optimus Prime is concerned. ::_

_:: Aren’t you fortunate that such is the case? ::_

_:: 😇😇😇 ::_

Megatron rolled his optics, albeit fondly. He tolerated such insolence from very few mecha, but Soundwave had more than earned the right to a little sass. He thought of replying, but his attention was required elsewhere, and anyway Soundwave hardly needed a response. He would do his duty as always, and would see to things while Megatron was… otherwise engaged.

Megatron shut down his comms, turning his full attention to Optimus’s silhouette. His dark blue helm tilted this way and that as he cast a wistful look around Megatron’s berthroom, broad red shoulders blocking a portion of the wall he stood before. It must look quite strange to him now, especially since he had once frequented the chamber before the war. Megatron cast it a cursory glance himself as he closed the distance between them.

Where once this berthroom had been small and dark and relatively cramped, it now took up the approximate total square footage of the original apartment. The ceiling loomed with gleaming arches of dark, polished stone and metal, veins of glowing crystal lighting the room below in shades of blue and purple. A berth large enough to fit Megatron’s massive frame twice over took up most of the space. A collection of old weaponry and promotional material from Megatron’s days in the Pits hung on the wall opposite the berth, showcasing the Champion’s glory and rise to power. Many of the images, Megatron realized abruptly, also featured young Orion Pax beside him, looking up at him with admiring optics or tucked beneath his arm.

He hadn’t realized just how many pictures of Orion were on that wall until now, when Optimus himself stood before it. The image of his youthful self repeated around him like a planetary ring, haloing him in depictions of the naive archivist he’d once been.

Oddly, the contrast did not seem quite so stark as it once had to Megatron.

He paused right against Optimus’s back, gently resting his chin atop the other mech's blue helm. It struck him how perfectly Optimus fit against his frame, and his engines hummed in approval as his hands settled upon the Prime’s hips.

“Admiring yourself, are you?” he asked.

Optimus laid his servos over Megatron’s, leaning back into his touch. “Admiring _you,_ in fact. Strange… some days the events depicted here feel like they happened mere hours ago, while on others…”

Optimus fell silent, pain rippling through his field. He did not need to finish the thought aloud for Megatron to understand what he meant. A thousand lifetimes had passed since their revolution began: since it had turned bloody, and turned them against one another. Nothing could ever be the same as it once had been, and yet here they were, together, despite everything.

Megatron tightened his grip on Optimus’s frame, soaking him in. He was warm and intimately familiar beneath Megatron’s servos, every seam and divot and bolt known to him despite their separation. _No more, beloved. Whatever the cost, however dear, I will pay it again and again if it keeps you at my side._

“I admit to some surprise at the many images you kept of me,” Optimus said. The curiosity in his voice was wary, edged with caution, and Megatron hummed a low, soothing note to calm him. “I did not expect to see myself showcased so prominently.”

“Have I not told you how terribly I missed my archivist?” Megatron replied. “I suppose this display ought to convince you, if nothing else will.”

“True.” Optimus sounded distant, his field warm and present and yet lost someplace Megatron could not reach. Megatron wondered what he was thinking about. Where his mind had drifted. If he had any regrets about his impulsive decision to come here.

He tugged Optimus closer, almost jealously, bumping his faceplate to Optimus’s audial. “Optimus. Come back to me.”

Optimus gave a quiet laugh and turned in his arms, optics bright and shining warmly. “Forgive me,” he said. “It has been a long time since I was last here. I was only taking a moment to reorient myself.”

“Was that what that dreamy little expression was for? I cannot imagine you missed this place so much.” Oh, but it was intoxicating, holding Optimus like this. Optimus’s palms rested against his chest now, and he was looking up at Megatron with the sort of adoration Megatron had imagined the night before, when he had allowed his processor to run away with him…

“I missed it quite a bit, actually,” Optimus said. He glanced away again, looking around the room with a fond smile. He was a warrior, proud and handsome and strong, and yet his face bore all the softness and earnestness of his younger self. Incredible, how all that Megatron had ever desired could form itself so perfectly into one being. “I missed being here with you. You must have forgotten, but there was a time where I considered this place _home_ \- though, in fairness, I believe now it was far more that _you_ are home to me, and not the Pits themselves.”

The words struck straight through Megatron’s spark, reminding him of the way Orion had once clung to him, asking to go home - _Not Iacon. Your quarters. Home._ How his spark had swelled to hear it then! And yet that feeling was subsumed and felt ten times more profoundly now, hearing Optimus Prime call _he himself_ home.

_Lord High Protector. Guardian of the Prime. Mate to him and home to him. Now there is an honor I did not often dare to dream of._

“You have fooled me all these years into believing my sweet archivist was gone, yet here he stands, as though he never left,” Megatron said quietly. “I missed seeing you like this.”

Optimus’s field wrapped itself around Megatron, echoing _gratitude_ and _love_ and _desire,_ that he was starving for Megatron’s servos upon him. It was impossible to resist the temptation of that pleading field - even if Megatron had wanted to resist.

He tilted Optimus’s face up towards his own, smiling to himself. He captured image after image of that soft blue stare, that tiny smile, the gleaming silver of Optimus’s faceplate. He wanted to remember this, whatever else the future held: this moment, where Optimus was in his arms, looking up at him so adoringly.

He traced Optimus’s dermas with one thumb, admiring him. He was still so beautiful, all these centuries later, despite the sadness he wore about him like a cloak, despite how tired and somber he seemed. “Well, now that you’ve had ample opportunity to observe it - do you find my improvements to my habsuite satisfactory?” Megatron asked.

Optimus smiled, glancing around one final time. “It feels like you, which is enough for me. It has certainly changed a great deal.”

Megatron arched an optic ridge. “Surely you did not expect me to return to living in squalor?”

“Of course not. It’s just… I miss the berth you used to keep,” Optimus said forlornly. “I was rather fond of it.”

“Oh, is that all?” Megatron could not help but laugh, relieved it was not a far worse condemnation. “I suppose I understand that. It was, after all, the very berth in which your seals were broken.” He had relived that delicious morning in his fantasies many times over the years, yearning for what had been. _And now, what was and what is may at last become one._ “Such fond memories! A pity it was already long-destroyed when I returned. I might have donated it to the Hall of Records, or triumphantly planted it in the square above as a monument to your first fragging.”

Optimus blushed a florid blue, huffing. “Perhaps I am grateful it no longer exists, in that case… though I suppose it is hardly secret. You must have boasted to your army about how easily you once seduced me.”

 _“Boasted?”_ The word stung more than Megatron cared to admit. “How could you think so? Ours was not some casual dalliance to brag about to prove my strength or stamina or power. I have never undervalued what you gave to me, Optimus. That you chose me for your first.” Things were beginning to feel serious again: dangerous territory Megatron currently preferred to avoid. Time to change the subject, then. “I must object to your recollection of the evening in question, regardless.”

Optimus frowned. “Oh?”

Megatron smirked at him, playfully tilting his helm. “If memory serves, any _seduction_ that occurred that night falls squarely in your servos, Optimus Prime. I was nearly forced to tie your drunken little self up to keep your hands off of me when I put you to berth.”

Optimus gave a surprised bark of laughter, casting a speculative, hungry look over Megatron’s whole frame. “I suppose you are correct,” he mused. “Be forewarned that you may be forced to take such steps again today.”

It was absurd how appealing that sultry look was, especially showcased on Optimus’s ever-grave face. “That would require me to want you to keep your servos off of me this time - which I assuredly do not,” Megatron replied. “Besides, restraining you now is a rather more complicated prospect.”

“You mean to tell me you have never considered how best to bind me?”

Oh, was that the game they were playing now? Megatron’s engines rumbled, pleased, the image of a trussed-up Optimus drawing a purr from already-heated engines. “Such aspersions cast upon my ingenuity! I may have a few ideas on the subject...”

Optimus got a very somber look upon his face. Only the slight gleam of his optics gave away that the look was a feigned one. “Perhaps you ought to demonstrate to me, lest I somehow find myself in a situation where I am required to break such restraints.”

Megatron pressed a servo over his spark. “And reveal all my secrets to you? I think not, Optimus. I may find myself required to tie you up quite often in the coming days.”

“For business, or pleasure?”

“Certainly pleasure - but I am not ruling out business, either,” Megatron replied. “You may find a way to irritate me just enough that a gentle kidnapping is required.”

Optimus chuckled. “You are equally likely to provoke me into tying you up sometime, you know.”

Now _there_ was a thought. Megatron hadn’t considered it before, but if anyone could successfully restrain him, it was almost certainly Optimus. A world of sinful possibilities suddenly opened up before him, driving off any more practical considerations. “And you think yourself capable of such, do you?”

Optimus pursed his dermas. “I think I am more than capable enough of handling you, Megatron.”

“Such promises!” said Megatron - and stoppered Optimus’s threat of a reply with a hungry kiss. His palms had begun to itch with static, a buzzing pulse echoing from behind his panels. He needed Optimus. He needed his sparkmate and lover beneath him more than anything, after centuries of separation -

But Optimus took him by surprise. Seeing an opportunity, the Prime seized it by the throat, gripping Megatron around the waist and turning him about. He pushed, commanding, authoritative, and backed Megatron down onto his massive berth, so that Megatron found himself pinned beneath him. The fall down was clumsy, but Megatron was too preoccupied to pay much heed to their equal lack of grace. He groped for Optimus impatiently, one hand clutching Optimus’s free palm while the other curved around his rounded aft, scourging the metal there with a squeal of claws as Optimus kissed him deeply.

Optimus groaned, lifting his helm and ordering, “Open up.”

Oh, but to hear his voice like this: low and ravenous and aflame with desire, rough as Megatron’s own for once… how was it that Optimus Prime could be both innocent saint and temptation incarnate, all tucked beneath a stoic soldier’s frame? Megatron grinned against Optimus’s mouth. “The Primacy has made you bossy, I see! I think I rather like it.”

Optimus laughed, bending to bite down on the now-exposed cabling of Megatron’s intake. Megatron’s vents hitched, fans kicking up a level, as he clawed the metal of Optimus’s aft and hip in reply. “You will like it far less when you wish to control my movements, I suspect,” Optimus murmured.

“I think I have grappled you enough times to get you exactly where I want you,” Megatron retorted. He closed both legs tight around Optimus’s waist and _tugged,_ hard. Their panels clashed together, and Optimus made a gorgeous, guttural noise, grinding against him as his optics flashed in surprise and delight.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Megatron grinned. “I know you _like_ it.”

A tiny smile bloomed on Optimus’s mouth, and he returned to meet Megatron’s gaze head-on. “I am hardly disappointed. I simply never imagined you would want me between your legs quite so badly.”

Megatron scowled and started to retort - but Optimus was already moving, biting an armor plate with surprising force and tracing the dented metal with his glossa, eliciting a shudder from Megatron’s whole frame.

“Do try not to sound so _smug,_ ” Megatron managed. His voice had already gone hoarse and staticky, alive with arousal as he ground himself against Optimus’s panel, hoping it would be enough to get him to open. “I can think of better uses for that lovely little mouth of yours.”

“Can you indeed.” Optimus gave a secret smile, sliding down Megatron’s frame and pressing a fervent kiss over his spark. “You must wish for me to use it to tell you how strong and handsome you still are, and how easily you fell even the Prime.”

Pits, but Megatron loved to hear such praise from Optimus. It had been so long since his handsome lover had crooned compliments to him. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Optimus,” he muttered, even though it was, in fact, getting him _everywhere._

“It might get me behind your panels,” Optimus replied, teasing his digits over Megatron’s abdominal vents. “Unless you have suddenly become shy in my presence?”

“You are _incorrigible!_ ” Megatron jolted as Optimus nipped at a gap between his armor chest plates, gritting his teeth. How dare Optimus display such talent in berth, when he was already veritable perfection! _Well, Optimus Prime never disappoints. I have said so myself a thousand times and more._ “I’ll open when you’ve damn well earned it, Optimus, and not a moment sooner.”

“Stubborn mech.” The words were as fond as any endearment. Optimus lowered his helm, and Megatron arched as he breathed him in, conveying with a ripple of his field how much he had missed Megatron’s scent - power cells and battle smoke and superheated metal, like the essence of a battlefield distilled into cologne. _:: Destruction and fury wrapped in scarred-up silver, barely contained and always waiting to be unleashed, ::_ said Optimus: a private ping that allowed his mouth to continue wreaking havoc on Megatron’s sensory subsystems even as he praised and purred over his lover. _:: Unleash on me, my mate. I want to watch you come undone. ::_

Megatron’s processor swam, dizzy with desire. He pushed himself to say something, some arch retort to ruin the moment - but Optimus forestalled it with a flick of his glossa, then a lingering lick over Megatron’s abdominals and downward -

Megatron wrenched beneath him as he reached a tender space just above Megatron’s panel. This was incredible, this was _too much,_ this was some dark and desperate fantasy he’d not thought to entertain, and if he did not assert himself - if he did not make Optimus see - 

Snarling, Megatron grabbed Optimus's arm and attempted to flip him over. No, _he_ would be the one in charge here, the one to issue commands, the one to control their movements. To do otherwise was to be powerless, to be vulnerable, and whatever else Megatron wanted, he was not ready for that - 

But instead of rolling over, Optimus… _pinned him._

Megatron froze, stunned, as Optimus glanced up, a disapproving rumble echoing from his engines. There was a look in his eyes that was brutal and certain and stalwart, almost - dare he imagine it? - _possessive._

_My mate. My warlord. Mine to pleasure as I see fit. Stay still, beloved, and let me love you properly._

“ _Slagging Primus, Optimus,_ ” Megatron rasped, wide-eyed and painfully aroused.

That feral, godly look faded into a serene smile as Optimus bent to kiss the elaborate modesty panel Megatron wore, nipping at its edges and leaving marks in the metal, like a mate-claim. “Am I not permitted to worship my Lord Protector as he deserves - to honor him for the reverence he pays to me?”

Megatron’s intake spat white noise. “I - _of course,_ only - ”

Optimus’s grip softened, though his weight still held Megatron firmly in place. “Have your other berthmates never pinned you before? I would have thought you enjoyed the challenge such a struggle might offer.”

“I have never had a berthmate remotely capable of doing so,” Megatron said, through a blaze of static. “It is… surprisingly intoxicating.”

Optimus cast him a coy look, teasing a seam with his glossa and rumbling with pleasure when Megatron shuddered all over. “There is a first time for everything.”

“So it would s- _seem._ ” Megatron stuttered when Optimus’s glossa slid over superheated metal paneling. The pressure he exerted grew, and Megatron was left to buck against that weight, panting and wild as Optimus unraveled him bit by bit. Each kiss and love bite and lick was met with a shudder of thick armor plating not used to being stimulated so fiercely. Optimus was once again proving himself exceptional, using both his prior knowledge of what Megatronus had enjoyed in berth and his battle knowledge of the weak points in Megatron’s frame to send him hurtling to catastrophic heights of pleasure.

Even if he could have resisted, he suddenly no longer wished to. He let himself give way for once, allowing Optimus to worship him: watching with stalled vents as Optimus lit every sensor cluster in his frame on fire, leaving him deliciously oversensitized and aching with need.

It was a bite to the thigh that finally undid him: a sharp graze of Optimus’s dentae against the soft purple protoform exposed at the joining of hip and thigh armor. Optimus bit down, sucked, and suddenly Megatron’s panel was transforming aside. His wet valve was exposed now, spike swelling to its full girth. Optimus made a low, hungry sound, diving down to taste Megatron the very instant that he opened. Liquid fire ignited as Optimus's glossa teased over Megatron's exposed purple node, and Megatron seized hold of Optimus’s helm with a sharp moan, pushing Optimus’s face against his valve, hard. The tease of Optimus’s glossa intensified. Each lick sent tiny and ever-growing shocks of desire through Megatron’s node and outward, like high grade spreading through his lines. The protoform of his valve was already growing slick, swelling with energon and heat as ripples of pleasure danced up his frame. Optimus abandoned his node to tease the entrance of his channel instead, clever tongue sliding between the folds to spread him open, and Megatron wrenched, ecstatic, as Optimus pressed inside him. That glorious glossa teased more wetness from his clenching valve walls, sweeping over sensory clusters that had not been stimulated in a painfully long time.

How long had it been since he had last allowed himself this pleasure? Centuries. Maybe millennia. His vents came in hoarse, raspy sounds as Optimus withdrew and closed his dermas around his node again, completely content to lie there wreaking havoc on Megatron’s sensory array. Megatron thought he heard the telltale sound of a valve panel sliding back, the arch of Optimus’s back suggesting he might have slid a servo between his own legs - and Primus, what a visual that was - but Megatron was too lost to truly take in the view.

Optimus sucked gently at his node at first, his dermas coaxing it into swelling beneath his attentions. That alone was incredible, but then he brought his glossa back into play, sucking and lapping simultaneously, and Megatron shouted hoarsely, optics rolling back as need pulled him taut. His armor rattled and flared wide, expelling heat in massive gusts, as Optimus made an obscene, wet noise against his node.

Primus help him. Optimus was _magnificent._

He jolted back to himself when he felt the pressure of Optimus’s digits teasing the entrance to his valve, slicking themselves in his fluids. His calipers squeezed around nothing, a fresh bolt of charge erupting through his circuits in anticipation. He could imagine the sweet pressure of those digits spreading him open, thrusting inside him, and his valve rippled eagerly at the thought. He wanted, he ached, and yet he did not dare accept - he was too close already, and if Optimus got his digits in him - 

“ _Optimus,_ ” Megatron groaned, clutching at his helm. “Wait - ”

Optimus pushed both digits inside, carefully spreading Megatron open, and Megatron gave a shout of pleasure, vocals cracking and sharp with static. The pressure lit every sensory cluster just inside the entrance of his channel, calipers clutching at the intrusion with a greedy ripple. He’d taken spikes far larger than this once, but it had been so long… and no spike could move like Optimus’s digits did, coaxing his calipers to stretch open wider, seeking node clusters he’d never touched so intimately when they had first been lovers.

“I see you’ve been practicing,” Megatron managed, pushing Optimus’s helm down hard. He shifted, discontented, when Optimus’s attentions moved an inch or two. “No, not there - ”

Optimus let his engines rev, making his whole frame shake. The vibrations rumbled up through him to Megatron, to Megatron’s valve and node, and Megatron gave a piercing shout as his whole array was helplessly stimulated. Optimus smiled and repeated the gesture - once, twice, three times, until Megatron’s legs shook and his frame burned with heat his fans could never cool.

He was going to overload before he ever got Optimus inside him. The idea had never seemed so painful. As much as he was enjoying this fearsome ride, he wanted to be fully united with Optimus when he overloaded. He wanted to feel Optimus in him, utterly and completely his own after centuries of believing it could never be…

“Enough of this,” he snarled, grabbing for Optimus’s shoulder. “Come _here._ ”

Optimus _winked_ at him, the monster, and sucked at his node, punishingly hard. What could Megatron do but collapse against the berth, panting wildly and shouting himself into a vocalizer malfunction? He let himself fall towards the brink a moment or two longer, digging sharp claws into Optimus’s helm until he could bear it no more.

“Fine,” he spat through gritted teeth, angrily riding Optimus’s mouth. “Fine, then, if this is what you want…”

He used all his strength to clamp his thighs around Optimus’s helm, watching smugly as Optimus’s eyes snapped wide, his hand withdrawing. Then, finally, with little effort, he grappled Optimus onto his back, so that he sat astride the Prime’s faceplate.

Control, at long last. Megatron relaxed, comfortable and no longer feeling quite so powerless, smirking down at his prize.

“There,” Megatron purred, leaning back and shifting his spike aside to admire his mate. “That’s much better.”

Optimus shivered, making the unholiest sound Megatron had ever heard. His optics dimmed, and he returned at once to his former task, now with twice the enthusiasm. That dim blue gaze stayed locked upon Megatron’s own. Optimus’s ever-somber faceplate was alive with naked lust. Megatron’s engines revved, and his touch gentled to a caress over Optimus’s helm, soft and approving, as though praising a pet for his good work. Optimus’s spike panel spiraled open at the gesture, somewhere behind Megatron, and Megatron could only grin with pride, the Champion Triumphant.

“Enjoying the view, are we?” he asked.

 _:: How could I do otherwise? ::_ Optimus replied. His servo, still damp with Megatron’s fluids, closed around his spike, stroking the full length of the shaft while his mouth continued to make magic on Megatron’s node. _:: You are glorious, Megatron. ::_

Megatron felt a raspy, hoarse groan tear free of him. Optimus had returned to his former task with even greater enthusiasm, tongue merciless and wet and dragging Megatron closer to the edge. Megatron leaned back further still, panting, hips jerking into the touch. He could see his fluids smeared over Optimus’s chin, dripping onto his exposed intake cables, and better still, he could see how desperately aroused Optimus was by the change in position. His blue eyes flickered, dimming and brightening by turns, locked on Megatron’s face as he stroked Megatron’s spike in one hand and clung to his lower back with the other.

“Good,” Megatron said absently, staring into Optimus’s face. “Good, Optimus. You do surprise me at every turn with newfound skill.”

Optimus blinked coyly up at him, gently squeezing his spike. _:: You are not the only mech with a silver tongue. ::_

Megatron’s laugh faded into a sharp groan, claws leaving scrapes in Optimus’s helm as he rutted against the Prime’s mouth. Primus, but the glorious heat and wetness of his glossa - the perfect, fearsome squeeze of his palm - he was wonderful, and he was Megatron’s, forever, as he always should have been. Optimus revved his engines again, and lightning crackled over Megatron’s frame, sending him curling forward. Both palms slapped against the berth above Optimus’s helm as Megatron jolted into his touch, gasping and artless and shuddering all over. A heavenly, bright precipice opened up before him, threatening to swallow him, as Optimus sucked at his node, soft at first and then harder, harder -

“Optimus,” he gasped, feeling every strut in his frame go taut. Tension coiled in his tanks, squeezing hard, calipers rippling unevenly as his spike twitched in Optimus’s digits. “Optimus, my spark - ”

 _:: My Megatron, ::_ Optimus crooned, content, watching him unblinking. _:: My Champion, my Protector - you are perfect like this. Don’t hold back, beloved. Overload for me. ::_

A molten ripple of ecstasy tore up Megatron’s spinal strut, dispersing through every line and rising, rising - and then he erupted, shouting, howling Optimus’s name as both valve and spike spilled in release. Optimus moaned sharply, still teasing him, dragging his servo over Megatron’s spike until it hurt, until nothing more could be wrung from him, until he was utterly spent.

The tension bled from him, the precipice collapsed and faded, and Megatron rolled off of Optimus with a final, guttural noise, fans wailing above the sounds of his engines winding down after his release.

He was still lying there a moment later when Optimus crawled on top of him, kissing his faceplate softly. “May I?” he murmured. Megatron felt the nudge of his spike against his channel, and his only reply was to open his legs again, valve already fluttering at the thought of Optimus inside him.

Still Optimus hesitated, waiting for a word, for spoken consent. Precious creature. Megatron cracked open an eye and grinned slyly. “Well? Do you intend to keep me waiting?”

Optimus smiled, and a sparkbeat later he sank into Megatron, careful and deliberate and slow, as though Megatron was both fragile and precious. He was too soft, too cautious, too kind. Megatron groaned, arching, and reached back to take hold of Optimus again, yanking him forward.

“Do not treat me as though I am made of glass,” he ordered, glowering. “Frag me properly or not at all, Optimus Prime.”

There was a glazed, ecstatic expression in Optimus’s eyes, unfocused. Megatron could feel his spike twitching, hardening further as it sank deeper. It appeared to be a largely utilitarian unit, smooth but for a well-placed bump that struck a node cluster near the apex of Megatron’s valve with startling accuracy. His tanks tightened again at the sensation, and he gripped Optimus’s hips with his thighs, dragging him forward at a brutal, punishing pace.

“ _Megatron,_ ” Optimus groaned, almost a complaint, almost a plea. “Wait, _wait,_ not so fast - ”

Megatron laughed, admiring the ripple of Optimus’s armor as he shuddered. “So quickly, Optimus! Did the intervening war years teach you nothing about stamina?”

“The war years never saw you in my berth,” Optimus panted. “And the last time I shared a berth with anyone was… some time ago.”

“You haven’t lost your touch, however long ago it was,” Megatron bit out. Optimus shifted and hit a new angle, spike making contact with Megatron’s ceiling node, and Megatron’s optics flared with light, a gasp torn straight from his vocalizer.

Optimus must have known he’d found a sweet spot. He grinned, braced himself, and thrust full force, hitting that spot again and again. Megatron arched up off the berth, static ripped from his intake as pleasure burned through his field. _“Huh - ah - Optimus-!”_

Optimus’s engines revved, brutally loud, and his optics snapped wide and blue and bright, and there it was, the stutter of his pistoning hips that told Megatron he was close. Megatron smirked, exposing his fangs, and tapped Optimus’s chest, running the pads of his digits over the thin line between the windows.

“Give me this,” he ordered. “Give me what you promised me last night.”

Optimus shuddered all over, gasping and slack-mouthed - and then his face was wreathed in light, chest plates drawing back to once again reveal his glorious spark. He had not even paused to question. He gave of himself so willingly, so openly, even after all Megatron had done…

Megatron vented out, slow and steady, and bent forward to place a reverent kiss to Optimus’s spark chamber. The light kissed his faceplate with a heat so intense it almost felt cold, swelling around him the closer he came to it. It reached for him like a phantom limb, trembling beneath the brush of his dermas; and when he whispered into it, murmuring _My beloved_ like a prayer lifted up to a god, Optimus wrenched and went taut above him before falling into his own release, shouting Megatron’s name until his vocalizer crackled, until he too plummeted down from the heights of pleasure, sagging and falling onto the berth beside Megatron with a sharp, contented sigh.

Megatron rolled onto his side, content to watch Optimus for the moment: content to see his marks on Optimus’s frame, to see the happy pulse of that spark that would soon belong exclusively to him. He smiled to himself and pulled Optimus close to him, and Optimus turned at once to nestle against his frame, humming all over with happiness.

“You know,” Optimus said, voice crackling with static, “I don’t think most cessations of hostilities are negotiated like this.”

Megatron laughed, amused. “Is that what you’d call this? And here I thought you considered it a proposal - for which such celebrations seem far more apropos.”

“I think I prefer your version of things,” Optimus mumbled sleepily.

“Now there’s a first.” Megatron let his gaze wander over the mech in his arms, running his digits up and down Optimus’s frame. Would the surrealness of moments such as these ever fade away? It was strange and wonderful to see Optimus so open to him, so vulnerable and at ease. _May I never again take such moments for granted._

“And how is that hangover treating you, Optimus?” Megatron murmured, gently kissing Optimus’s helm.

He laughed in reply, slinging an arm over Megatron’s hip. “Decidedly improved, I think. How kind of you to wonder.”

The answer, which should have given him no pause, set his spark to spinning anxiously. Even in the wake of that glorious fragging, he could not help but remember their promise to discuss more details when Optimus was feeling clear-headed. Negotiations between them had never been anything but hostile. For possibly the first time since his emergence, Megatron did not _want_ such hostility. Not with Optimus. Not on this subject. He wanted nothing more than to bask in this feeling, in the splendor of Optimus’s frame and wit and emotion all openly displayed for him. He wanted to pretend a little longer that the past would not haunt them come the morning, that their next steps would not be far harder than this one had been.

But he was not a fool. The matter could not be avoided forever, no matter what he wished.

Optimus’s servo against his face startled him from his thoughts. When he looked down, the Prime was studying him with a soft, fond expression, smiling to himself. 

“Megatron. Come back to me,” he said, and despite himself, Megatron smiled.

“Forgive me, beloved. I was only thinking.”

“So I see,” said Optimus wryly. He paused, searching Megatron’s face for a moment. “You are leaping ten steps ahead, as always, I presume - deciding what to present to the public, setting your strategy for what you anticipate I might fight against whenever we settle the matter of our public roles, and how our union will affect them.”

“I hadn’t gotten quite that far,” Megatron muttered. Was this how Optimus had felt when Megatron had proudly shown how well he knew him still, even millennia after their devastating separation? It was a terrible, exposed feeling, and yet it did not frighten him at all. It made his spark beat slow and warm within his chest, flaring with affection for the mech who understood him so deeply.

Optimus was looking at him still, smiling, the way he once had when they had first become friends. “Megatron, I cannot pretend the future that lies before us will be an easy one. That we will not face a myriad of problems when this union becomes public knowledge. I know this, and I too am preparing. But for now - for today - can we just… be together, at least a few hours more?”

Megatron relaxed, a soft smile stealing his dermas. A few more hours. He could do that. He could afford to spare some time for himself and for Optimus, after so many centuries apart. He had earned that much, hadn’t he? Did they not both, after all they had been through, deserve a moment to rest?

Greedily, he reached for Optimus, rolling atop him with a grin and a dark purr. “Who am I to refuse a Prime?” he said, eyes glinting. “Very well, Optimus. I suppose a few hours more shall do…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We are going to have to work on this, you and I,” he said softly.
> 
> Megatron closed his optics until only the thinnest red sliver shone forth, moving to kiss Optimus’s palm a second time. “I know.”
> 
> Optimus shivered, smiling. “You will not be able to seduce your way out of such discussions, either.”
> 
> Megatron cast him a sly look, glossa tracing down to Optimus’s wrist and teasing a sensitive cable there. “That remains to be seen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, the fic is done! I love two soft old robots.
> 
> Thank you as always for your wonderful comments, for reading and favoriting and kudos-ing and everything else! It is more appreciated than you will ever know <3

Optimus’s frame hummed with satisfaction. Every last strut had finally relaxed after millions of years of tension, no longer awaiting what he had once considered an inevitable attack. It was a simple matter to feel at ease when the mech who had been responsible for said attacks was stretched out next to him, lazily tracing the length of his frame with his digits.

_Lover. Companion. Sparkmate. Finally._

When Optimus looked up from the datapad in his hand, Megatron was watching him, an endless, unblinking stare. Optimus smiled at him and reached up to stroke Megatron’s helm. “I will not disappear should you happen to look away for a moment,” he said, amused. “Do not damage your optics on my account, Megatron.”

Megatron gave a rueful laugh, turning to kiss Optimus’s palm. “Am I so obvious?”

“To me you are.” Optimus burrowed closer, taking pleasure in Megatron’s warmth, the weight of his arm slung over Optimus’s hip. “As obvious as I am to you.” He pursed his dermas, casting Megatron a disapproving glance. “On second thought, I am perhaps less obvious to you than I at first believed myself to be, since you doubted me enough to presume my flirtations were insincere.”

Megatron rolled his optics in reply, annoyed. “You’ll forgive me if several million years of war have caused me to become a _tad_ suspicious.”

“I am not the mech who once led an army of self-described Decepticons, beloved.”

Megatron looked prepared to argue, bristling all over. Optimus tensed against his side, alarms blaring across his HUD - war warnings, still active, preparing him for danger. _**WARNING. WARNING. MEGATRON+STANCE=ATTACK.MODE; BRACE.DEFENSE.MODE ENGAGED -**_

Megatron felt that tension, the way that Optimus braced to defend himself, and suddenly looked… was that _guilt_?

His plating relaxed and fell back into position, and he lifted his hand in a gesture of peace. “Point taken,” he said. “No need for worry, Optimus. You may disengage your defensive protocols now.”

Optimus’s joints unlocked, vents gusting in quiet relief as his HUD cleared of commands. For a moment afterward, they sat in silence, studying one another. A tension had blossomed just then between them, a familiar thread of enmity and fear they had entertained for millennia. It made Optimus ache somewhere deep in his spark, to feel that edge returning.

“We are going to have to work on this, you and I,” he said softly.

Megatron closed his optics until only the thinnest red sliver shone forth, moving to kiss Optimus’s palm a second time. “I know.”

Optimus shivered, smiling. “You will not be able to seduce your way out of such discussions, either.”

Megatron cast him a sly look, glossa tracing down to Optimus’s wrist and teasing a sensitive cable there. “That remains to be seen.”

Damn him. He was glorious, his Protector, his Champion. Optimus could only admire him, wondering at the swell of desire the warlord ignited in him. “You are a menace.”

“So I’m told. Yet I hardly hear a protest from your lips.” He scored the metal of Optimus’s plating with his fangs, just sharp enough to sting, just soft enough to make Optimus’s vents hitch. Optimus watched, awed, breathless, struggling to swallow the hungry flare of _need_ and _want_ and _lust_ in his field.

“You know,” Optimus said, very seriously, intending to deflect Megatron’s attention, “You ought to be flattered.”

Megatron paused, looking up with a sneer. “Oh? And why is that, Optimus?”

Optimus smiled, optics twinkling. “I do not usually make a habit of putting out on first dates.”

Megatron’s expression softened at once, a surprised laugh rumbling through his engines. “I shall have to take your word for it! That hardly matches my own experience.”

“Yes, well,” said Optimus, ruefully. “You have a certain irresistible charm about you. Something to do with your magnetic personality, I think.”

“Of course.” Megatron’s vocals were dry and amused. “Surely the massive frame, brute strength and many triumphs in the Pits have no effect whatsoever.”

Optimus frowned. He did think Megatron was terribly handsome, and the strength he wielded was breathtaking; but what he loved - what he had always loved - was Megatron’s _mind_. His brilliance. His capacity to plan on a grand scale. His quick wit and clever tongue. The rest - his physicality, his strength - was just an added bonus.

“I knew you first through your voice, and not your frame,” Optimus said at last. “It was your words I fell in love with: your speeches, your drive, your fire. How you spun words into weapons so beautiful that many could not see their danger until it was too late. You opened my eyes to plights I would never have seen nor imagined had I never heard you speak. You built a revolution out of nothing, with only your voice and your mind and the passion of your spark. You are a force as powerful as gravity, and I, like many others, could not help but be drawn in.”

He could feel Megatron looking at him, but he shied away from that stare, regretting that he had spoken so seriously in response to what had clearly been said in jest. “Ah, ignore me. I am growing sentimental in my old age.”

Megatron caught his chin and gently tilted his face up. When Optimus finally looked at him, he was smiling, deeply affectionate and full of a warmth Optimus had not earned from him in centuries. “You talk of being drawn in, and yet you alone found the strength to speak against me when you believed me to be wrong,” he said. “You alone among all Cybertronians challenged me and won, not once, not twice, but thousands of times, whether about some simple philosophical quibble or on the battlefield. If I am gravity, then you are the force that binds all matter, the bond between atoms, stalwart and strong and eternal.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Optimus’s forehelm, the barest brush of dermas over his crest. “You do flatter an old warrior, beloved, to describe me as such.”

Optimus was overwhelmed, then, by the softness of the words: the tenderness of the gesture, the warmth in Megatron’s gaze. He had not thought he would ever receive such affection from his Champion again; yet now here Megatron was, giving it freely and fondly. Optimus wanted nothing more than to bathe in him forever, to feel that closeness, that fondness, until nothing else remained. He pressed all that and more into his field, letting it wash over Megatron with the weight and warmth of a thermal coverlet.

Megatron let his own field unfurl, gently wrapping Optimus in his affection, and Optimus shivered and swallowed what felt like tears, basking in it as long as he could.

Reluctantly, Megatron put some distance between them, if only by inches. “I do not wish to ruin a perfectly idyllic afternoon, but we should discuss how we intend to play this tomorrow morning.”

“ _Play_ this?” Optimus repeated, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Megatron tilted his helm. Optimus could almost see his processor working, racing ahead to anticipate the actions of his enemies - his enemies, and Optimus’s. “I imagine you will wish to be bridged to your habsuite or office prior to the opening of the session,” he said. “It will spare you the indignity of arriving with me directly, and as I am sure your public image is currently of great concern to you…”

Optimus flinched. He had been trying not to think about the party, trying not to face the consequences of allowing his emotions free reign. What must the Senators think of him now? What would they say to him, having seen him drunk and disorderly and falling on his own aft, when he criticized some policy they wished to implement or proposed his own ideas for their consideration? He was certain he would earn their mockery, and it made him shrivel up inside to picture it.

Wait. Megatron had said - _the indignity_ \- and _bridged to your hab or office…_

Optimus shot upright, incensed. “Why do you think I am ashamed to be seen with you?”

Megatron paused, arching an optic ridge. “... is that a serious question?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Optimus snapped, exasperated. “Yes, it is! How can you imagine that I would wish to hide you, to hide _us_ , when I have already so clearly expressed how I feel, and what I want, and what I hope for for our future - ”

“Optimus - ”

“No, no, I will _not_ hear this,” Optimus said angrily. “Whatever you may think, whatever you may believe of me, surely you must know now that I feel no shame where you are concerned!”

“Optimus,” Megatron said again, equally exasperated. “Stop.”

“Do you truly still not believe me?” Optimus asked. He was hurt against his will, hurt and sorrowful and angry, that he had given so much and been so open, only for Megatron to show yet again that he did not trust him… “Despite everything, you really still imagine that I wish to hide you away like some sordid little secret - ”

“ _Optimus_ ,” Megatron repeated, more forcefully this time. “This is not a matter of shame or secrets - it is a matter of controlling public opinion. I am endeavoring to protect you as much as I am myself. If we are to make this work, then we must control when and how the rest of Cybertron learns of our intended union. Doubtless, there are rumors already disseminating amongst the Councils and Senate, but we would be better off not to encourage them by striding out of a groundbridge together while wearing each other’s paint.”

Oh. Well, that was a _slight_ improvement. Optimus could admit, albeit reluctantly, that Megatron had a point. “So you are suggesting I pretend I did not spend the last day in your habsuite.”

“I think that would be a wise choice, yes.”

Optimus considered that, tapping his digits anxiously against his knee. “You are asking for me to play the role of the aloof and distant Prime and enemy general with you, as though nothing has changed.”

“Not _nothing_ ,” Megatron said. “I doubt anyone imagines we will act exactly the same as we once did - not after what they witnessed at the party. A little restraint would not go amiss, however.”

Optimus tilted his helm. “And you think yourself capable of restraint around me, do you?”

Megatron’s eyes flashed, heat rolling through his field. “Do you intend to test me, Optimus? I would not think that very wise nor very Prime-ly of you.”

Optimus glanced away with careful, practiced innocence. “I don’t see why it should be a problem, as you seem to feel you have the matter handled.”

“And what of you? Do you think you somehow possess the will to keep your servos off me? This afternoon does not lead me to believe that possible,” Megatron shot back.

“I suppose we shall find out tomorrow.” Optimus’s smile faded, worry flooding his field. “I… that is, if you would prefer it, I can return to Iacon tonight. If you are concerned with how things look… if you would rather…”

“ _No_.” Megatron’s grip on Optimus abruptly tightened, something anxious and unhappy rippling through his field. “No, not yet. Stay with me. No one else need know where you have been, even if you stay the night. You can bridge back to your hab tomorrow morning.”

Optimus let his relief echo towards Megatron, his struts relaxing again. “Oh. Good. I would far rather remain with you than face a cold and empty berth at home.”

“Yes, well, given the choice I would wish to avoid those barren quarters too,” Megatron drawled. “If you expect me to stay with you in the future, we will have to do some redecorating… starting with a larger berth first and foremost.”

“The smaller berth encourages cuddling.”

“ _Cuddling_? Oh, yes, absolutely - if your optical socket enjoys cuddling with a sharp pauldron in the midst of recharge,” Megatron laughed. “If that is the sort of thing you enjoy, Optimus, be my guest.”

Optimus tapped a digit against his dermas, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps if I draped myself atop you… no need for a thermal cover on cold nights then.”

“You are ridiculous,” Megatron said fondly, tweaking one of Optimus’s finials. “After the session closes tomorrow, we are going to dine together and order new furniture.”

“Why wait? As you are so insistent, we can do so now and save ourselves some time.”

Megatron smirked, looking exceedingly smug. “Are you so eager for my touch that you wish to be certain you have a place to frag me close to hand at all times?”

Optimus swept his gaze over Megatron’s frame, smiling to himself. “Can you blame me if I am?”

“Not in the slightest.” Megatron pulled Optimus close, and Optimus settled against him with a contented sigh.

They lay there for a long time in blissful silence, drinking each other in. It was intimate and warm and wonderful, the kind of peace Optimus had dreamed of but never thought he would be permitted to have. Megatron watched him through dimmed, hooded optics, radiating calm and pleasure as Optimus watched him in return, just admiring him.

_Millennia of warfare, and we can still have this. I intend to savor every single moment._

Some time later, Optimus received a ping. Blinking, he glanced away from Megatron, groping for the datapad he had set aside an hour or so before.

There on the screen was a message, from the Senator whose proposal had set Megatron into such a rage the day before. Optimus read it with growing surprise, scanning its details in astonishment.

_RE: Tomorrow’s Session, Item 101.3675, Proposal: Senate Term Limits_

_Prime and Lord High Protector:_

_Please find attached an adjusted proposal for discussion at tomorrow morning’s session._

_In light of Lord Megatron’s objections and remarks made by the Prime at last night’s gathering, I and others have performed research into the objections posed by our leaders and have found the basis for your concerns to be legitimate. Our intended goal is not to repeat the past, but to lead Cybertron into a fairer and more equitable future for all. I know this is what you both desire, and whatever you may think of my original intentions, it is also my goal._

_For your consideration, the following adjustments have been proposed here:_

_
  * Term limits of a century at most, at which point Senators become ineligible for re-election; 
  * Election cycles of a decade, where Senators will be required to campaign for election/re-election and where new citizens can step forward to be elected to the role; 
  * A series of stipulations and rules of behavior that allow the removal of corrupt officials after public trial 
_ 


_It is not what I would consider flawless, of course, but it may be more suited to the aim you are trying to achieve here. I am eager to hear your thoughts._

_I hope you are both well after last night’s festivities._

_Best,_

_Senator Blueflash_

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Optimus said, glancing up. Megatron was reading silently over his shoulder, an optic ridge arched as he read through the message. “It would appear my - how did you phrase it… _drunken shenanigans?_ \- might have gotten us somewhere useful after all.”

“Huh. Well, what do you know.” Megatron grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “ _Teamwork._ ”

Optimus smiled and gave a contented sigh, burrowing close to Megatron once more. “Teamwork,” he agreed.


End file.
